


Honeysuckle

by Amazonia_8



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Declarations Of Love, Edgeplay, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, M/M, Monsters, More Scent Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Oblivious Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Roach is putting up with a lot here, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Scent Kink, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22725856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amazonia_8/pseuds/Amazonia_8
Summary: The mutations are specific tools for specific uses. Formidable strength for formidable enemies. Sharpened sight to see what lurked in the darkness. Keen smell to track every kind of quarry. So while the varied scents of men can often times tell him what they are thinking, what they are likely about to do, there is one who's scent is unlike any other. There are precious few mysteries in Geralt's life anymore, even less that is new.There is a bard that follows him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 237
Kudos: 2189
Collections: Finished Fics I Love, Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Damn it I do not have time for a new ship in my life. I blame you Netflix casting director.

Geralt walked on and Jaskier followed.

“You smell of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.”

“It’s onion.”

A private joke. What did humans know about scent? Geralt didn’t go in for any of that other rubbish but the first one, because none of those things held a scent he could discern but death. Onions, Geralt considered, might be as close an approximation as anything else a human might understand. He wasn’t sure what it was they smelled when they encountered death, but it burned their eyes and dull noses much the same. To a witcher, there was no one scent of death. The death of a wyvern, a wolf, a man? And how long ago? And were the entrails severed or not, did the man piss himself in fear, did the ghoul feast on cadaverous flesh only that night or had it been starving? These all had their own delicate variation to Geralt, to any witcher capable enough to be walking around still alive. In his experience, the speed was good, the strength, the knowledge and potions, but scent guided Geralt along the Path surer than Roach or his own medallion most days. It was truth in an age of lies. 

A bloedzuiger once, fat as a monstrous tick and he had dodged the explosion of acid viscera well enough but had not counted on any splashing off a nearby rock and hitting him dead in the eyes. Three days he’d been blind, waiting for the antidote to take hold and in that time he’d managed to travel to the nearest village, find the inn, the ale, the room, bathe himself, clean and sharpen his swords, travel to the next village, accept another contract and dispatch the monster all under the power of scent alone.

He had never told the bard, but scent was the prime reason he’d let the man join his table that day in the first place. Inns were an assault to his senses, old sweat and spit and the general stench of men farting and fighting and pissing all over every surface. Did the patrons know how much of their stools and benches and tankards had at one time been coated in vomit? He had learned not to think of it.

But the bard, a chattering, silk spun, doe-eyed prat, had plunked himself down at Geralt’s table, something no man not specifically looking to employ his services had ever dared do, and brought with him a summer breeze of roses and mint and clean skin. It wasn’t even the oils, which Geralt knew were an artificial concoction, less expensive than the real thing and used mostly by the Continent’s better caliber whores, it was a freshness about him that Geralt understood to be the bard’s own scent. Storm painted winds across a grass plain. The rare charm of it, truthfully, was why each time Geralt told him to fuck off, he didn’t also draw his sword for emphasis or simply push the man into the nearest ravine. 

Jaskier followed him, and Geralt let him. 

Geralt let him share a room with him and noticed quickly the bard's habit of bathing rivaled a witcher’s. The hard travel and the monsters and the blood, witchers, all of them, made a point of washing more often than any princess in the Four Kingdoms. They’d go mad from the stench otherwise. Village after village, months into a year, Jaskier followed him and Geralt let him. 

There was a cost to it, to be sure, the stupid luxury of a traveling companion that masked the barbs of the road with sweet grass and first rain. Jaskier never shut the fuck up. Never. When he wasn’t talking, he was singing. When he wasn’t singing he was plucking out a song on his lute, the same three chords over and over again. Even in sleep Geralt couldn’t find quiet. Jaskier hummed and sighed and murmured half conversations then broke out giggling. Geralt spent far too many nights glaring at ceilings or stars, clenching his teeth and reminding himself that it was poor form to choke a man to death in his sleep when he wasn’t expecting it. He had never wanted a traveling companion, every reason to avoid one made evident in some way each and every day they were together. But there were other things, things he hadn’t expected that he was in constant danger of getting used to.

Jaskier….liked him. 

Humans didn’t like him. They tolerated him at best, a necessary evil. Mostly they jeered at him, cursed him, accommodated him only as far as his coin lasted. Oftentimes not even then. They feared him. 

Jaskier didn’t fear him. 

Jaskier warbled to every ear that would listen of the witcher’s bravery, his heroism, his hair. Geralt still didn’t understand why so many lyrics needed to be wasted describing his hair. Or his eyes. They were strange, he understood that very well, no chance he’d forget. People knew what a witcher looked like, why did he have to suffer the indignity of listening to every conceivable description of himself belted in a jaunty tenor over the din of a bunch of shitfaced farmers. 

“Because, Geralt, that’s my job. To exalt the rare and exotic in glorious song, fill men’s hearts with the beauties and terrors of a world they have never seen. You are the perfect specimen to immortalize in song. One, you’re immortal, how fortunate is that?”

“I’m not immortal.”

“I really don’t see how telling people you are could hurt.” He confided with a conspiratory brow.

“You really should try and think harder then.”

“Second,” He continued blithely, “Why would I sing about some common tart - eyes the color of cow patties, hair as bright as a soiled apron, soft as old straw - when I have _you_ to glorify?” He flung his hands about in a general indication of Geralt’s person.

“The terrors of a world they’ve never seen?”

“More like their salvation from it.” He crowed to the hillside then began crooning one of his newer songs, lilting of the bright and golden dawn breaking on a desolate, snowy mountain and Geralt realized with growing discomfort that this one, too, might be about him. It wasn’t even a song about his exploits, just a ballad about lovely, lonely things that no man’s eyes would ever witness. Metaphors, not portraits. 

It made Geralt feel odd in his stomach, a dull roiling. Probably indigestion.

)

(

Not that their travels together were ceaseless. There were often times where their paths diverged, each following a different rumor of coin. Geralt into the wilds, Jaskier into the finer cities. Finer inns and parties, finer food, lovelier women. Weeks, sometimes a month or so, never long enough for Geralt to completely forget what it was like to travel the forests and swamps, high and low roads, with a twittering finch of a man who never dressed for the elements and still, two years after accepting the self-annointed position of personal bard to a witcher, hollered in shock and panic each time the monsters they encountered wanted to kill and eat them. Not always in that order.

“Did you _see_ that, Geralt?! That thing tried to _drown_ me!”

“It’s a drowner. That’s what they do.” 

“Oh yes, _shower_ me with your wit, dear witcher, it’s the only dry thing left between us!” 

Geralt hacked the head off the drowner body, wrapped and tied it to the saddle and led Roach a little ways off from the lake, confident Jaskier would follow. He always followed.

It was short work to ignite a fire, larger than usual, and build a camp. He stripped off his sodden clothes, spread them out to dry, pulled provisions from his pack and stretched out on his bedroll to eat.

“What...what are you doing?” Jaskier had asked after stumbling into the camp like a wounded fawn, eyes wide and lashes spiky wet.

“Dinner.”

“ _Naked_ dinner? That’s a little unsanitary, don’t you think? Where are your small clothes?”

“Drying. Do the same or you’ll get a rash.” Not that he cared one way or the other, but it was eight miles back to the village and he wanted every one of those to be traveled in peace.

“I will do no such thing, no thank you. Ablutions performed in the privacy of a room or discreetly in a river are not the same as stripping to my nethers and sprawling about the forest floor like some shameless nymph.”

“I’ve seen you naked Jaskier.”

“Not the same thing!” He decreed, tucking himself, dripping wet and shivering, up as close to the fire as he dared. Geralt shrugged and finished his food, leaving Jaskier’s portion by his bedroll. He had no idea why the bard believed there to be some great difference in manners of nudity, but there was an ocean of things he would never understand about that man. Stretching out, Geralt rolled onto his stomach, closed his eyes, enjoyed the gentle air and the warmth of the fire caressing the aching muscles of his back.

“Ok, ok I think I’m getting a rash. Geralt? How do I know if I’m getting a rash?”

“Take off your clothes.” Geralt growled from the pillow of his arms.

“Alright - Melitele’s tits - I am removing my clothing. Do _not_ watch me undress.”

Just to be an asshole, Geralt watched.

He didn’t know what Jaskier was fussing about. There was nothing wrong with his body. He was slim and healthy, his skin pale and blemishless, a youthful blush pinking him. No map of scars like Geralt, or an overabundance of muscles that signaled people should feel free to make whatever bullshit assumptions about him they pleased.

Jaskier minced about the camp, doing his best to lay his clothes out while hiding his more vulnerable parts from Geralt’s line of sight. It nearly landed him in the fire twice. 

“I’ll just…..maybe if I….” 

With as much noise as he could possibly manage, Jaskier tore a small shrub up from the roots and held it like a shield to cover his nudity. It took more effort than Geralt expended to kill the drowner for Jaskier to hunker down on his bedroll and find a position he could assume that would allow him to eat and maintain his ridiculous armament. Sometimes, the trials of traveling with Jaskier were utterly worth it for the moments of genuine amusement Geralt enjoyed.

“I’m sure that’s much more comfortable.”

“It _is_ actually, thank you. Maybe you should try it, cover up that backside so I don’t have to stare at it while I eat.”

Geralt grunted, scratched his ass, stretched long and hard until his spine popped. Beside him, Jaskier began to cough, the shrubbery shivering as he adjusted his seat.

That’s when the scent hit him.

“You’re aroused.” Geralt observed, no real accusation to it, but Jaskier sputtered as if he’d been caught with a hand on his prick.

“I am most certainly n- “ Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Not going to deny it. But it has nothing to do with _you_ , witcher, so don’t start plotting my murder. I was simply thinking on a young woman is all. That fair red-head we met back in the village, remember her?”

Geralt did not.

“Oh, she was as plump and ripe as a strawberry, that one. _Loved_ my singing, by the way. Whispered the filthiest things you’ve ever heard in my ear. When we go back, I may be indisposed for days, Geralt. _Days_.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t we have any blankets?” Jaskier cast about, changing the subject.

“Wet.”

“Both of them? Still?”

Geralt sighed, it was Jaskier’s insistence that he wash the blankets in the lake that almost got him dragged under in the first place.

“Come here. Leave the tree.”

“No.” Jaskier shook his head like a petulant child and the leaves rattled.

Fast as a viper, Geralt’s hand shot out to encompass Jaskier’s bare ankle. With an easy tug he dragged the man over to his bedroll, spun him around and tucked him up tight against his body. He was tired, and the last thing he wanted right now was to have to listen to Jaskier bitching about the cold when they could both be sleeping. The bard fit nicely against him, solid and slim in the shelter of his body. He smelled nice, too. The clean scent of his skin peppered with a bit of panic, residual embarrassment likely. The perfume of his arousal bloomed stronger in Geralt’s nose, now that they were closer. There was a darkness, a richness to it that was so unlike the women he’d slept with. Sharp and flavorsome as good ale, an earthen musk like rare truffles hidden deep in the forgotten woods. Geralt burrowed his nose into the back of Jaskier’s neck and inhaled. He found the scent of the bard stirring his own interest, but there was no bite to it, and certainly not any thought to act upon it. It was nice, was all, warm and comforting. Soon he was asleep.

In the village the next morning, Geralt collected his coin and returned to the tavern to find Jaskier. He was already three cups into his drink but jumpy as a hare when he spotted Geralt.

“Well, I’m afraid this is where we part for now. I’ve been told there’s a festival south of here to bless the turnip harvest. Raucous good time sounds like, just the sort of place that might be amenable to parting with some coin in exchange for a few lively tunes. Not something you’ll enjoy, I expect, what with the dancing and frivolity and….devotion to….root vegetable. Anyways, I know you had your heart set on heading north, so safe travels old friend. I’m sure we’ll see each other again some day.”

He left that very moment, not even bothering to finish his ale, which Geralt helped himself to. It was another two days before he left the town, seemed the people had more than one kind of trouble to sort out and were uncharacteristically appreciative of Geralt’s convenient presence. Or maybe it was that he heard snippets of Jaskier’s blasted tunes hummed on a few lips that softened their regard. 

He never did see any red-heads. Not that he looked.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sing a ballad.” 

“Is the noble witcher feeling sentimental?” Jaskier grinned lopsided at him as he skipped around the table.

“I’m feeling inclined to throw you in a well.” Geralt growled.

“I don’t really think this is a ballad kind of crowd tonight. Are you?!” He shouted at the packed tavern who were all swaying and crashing about like a storm tide against the rocks. “How about _Sweet Selene_? That should make everyone stand up and applaud.”

The company cheered and Geralt groaned. It was so crowded he couldn’t even make it upstairs without mortally trampling more than a few people. The possibility was under serious consideration.

He never should have told the bard. He should have kept his mouth shut and not thought- foolishly, foolishly- that the man might take his request to heart, not use it against him at every opportunity for his own amusement. 

Gods he could still see that moment, frozen in amber like a twisted insect, when the bard’s eyes had gone big, his mouth a soft O at the admission. It was a bad night. He was tired, and the pay had been meager and the food terrible and if all he had was the prospect of numbing a few of his ills in some pissy, bitter ale, then he’d like to do it without a fog of unwashed loins stirring in appreciation of the bard’s randier songs. 

“You mean to tell me that I have the ability to change the very air around us with one of my songs?”

“Not the air, just the stench that hangs in it. And only if you keep singing about cocks and tits. Just give it a rest and let me breathe.”

There had been no end to it after that. Like a squire with a sword, Jaskier wielded his newfound power with both hands and no regard for personal safety. Every night the songs grew more explicit, one after another, the most scandalous tales of virility and sullied virtue Jaskier could come up with. At least it meant he stopped singing so much about the witcher. It also meant that by the time Geralt stomped up to bed, the whole blasted inn stank of unfulfilled lust. It clung to his nose, followed him through the streets. It trailed the bard like a bouquet of ribbons from town to town.

“Take care of it.” He pulled up the reins and Jaskier nearly crashed into Roach’s back end in surprise.

“Take care of what?”

Not entirely the man’s fault for not knowing that Geralt had been huffing a fragrant cloud of musky _wanting_ for hours now. His jaw ached from clenching, the well broken saddle no longer comfortable between his thighs.

“Your needs. You smell like the waiting room of a brothel.”

“I smell like a-- no, correction, dear witcher, I smell like the waiting room of _Tridam’s_ brothel. Which I’m sure must be full to bursting with exuberant patons after my performance. I am merely the censer, ferrying a burning ember of passion through the kingdoms, the smokey tendrils of their desire, thus ignited by my songs, furling round me. It’s not me you smell, it’s them. If you hadn’t noticed, there are no buxom ladies sharing this road with us, so I do not currently have any _needs_ that should be met.”

With the swiftness he reserved for charging his prey, Geralt was off his horse and towering over Jaskier with a fist in the man’s delicately stitched tunic. His nostrils flared. It was so much more potent this close, and becoming - improbably, maddeningly - headier under his glare. He fought the drowsy impulse to cut the strings of his resistance, press his face into the supple alcove of that white throat and drink himself intoxicated. For such a lithely made, cherubic faced man, the savorsome essence of Jaskier’s lust sang of undiluted animal _need_. Silken as golden oil and just as unctuous on the palate. It whispered of things Geralt should not do, grind hard flesh against soft to find the limits of its give. Somewhere beneath all that sky blue brocade, the humid core of him blossomed like a centurial tropic flower, carnivorous, alluring as oblivion. It was the scent of ruin.

“It’s _you_ , Jaskier. I know the difference. You could sing a hundred orgies into existence and I would still be able to find your reek under all the bodies. These woods haven’t seen a witcher in years. They’re teeming with monsters and I can’t get us safely to the next village if I can’t fucking concentrate. _Take care of it_.”

Jaskier trembled, the ruddy flush of his cheeks paleing as something darted through his understanding. He slapped away Geralt’s hands in performative anyonance, pulling on his cheeky bard’s posture like a mask. Something very loud was clanging around in that brain but for once he’s doing everything he can to contain it. 

“So you want me to just pop on into the monster infested woods to ‘toss a coin to myself’, as they say, while you stand here and listen? Oh-ho I think not.”

“That is not a thing people say.”

Dusting himself off for something to do with his hands, Jaskier turned on his heel and continued down the road. 

“They will if I have anything to do with it. Just you wait. Drop it into a few jokes, maybe a line in one of my new songs - sort of a saucy little wink to my fans - next thing you know it will be sweeping the lexicon. Hey Geralt, do you think there’s a way to make a profit if you coin a phrase? Someone had to’ve at some point or else why would it be called _coin_ a phrase? Who do you think would know a thing like that? A scholar? Do you think there’ll be a scholar in the next town? Geralt? ......Geralt?”

Any hint of lingering desire had evaporated somewhere amidst their bickering. Annoyed as Geralt was at being so pointedly ignored, he couldn’t argue that the outcome was exactly what he’d wished. Jaskier rambled aimbiably through every single step of the journey to the next village. He didn’t sing any of his salacious songs that night, he sang of the White Wolf. He didn’t try to rile up the passions of his audience at all after that, tempering any requests for the livelier works with a ballad just after.

He left the witcher in Redania. The seven months that followed were the longest they’d been apart. Sometimes, deep in the night, when the nearest living soul was days away from his camp, Geralt hummed to himself. 

Softly, just for a moment.

)

(

“You're angry.”

“Well of course I’m angry!” Jaskier shouted, swinging his arms in the air, dramatic as ever. “They ran us out of town, Geralt, after you saved them all from a slow, gruesome death!”

“It happens.” Geralt grunted. It was barely a mile out of town, but they’d need to make camp soon, it was getting dark. Jaskier, however, seemed intent on stomping out his frustration for a bit further, putting distance between them and the scatter of yellow lights winking into life behind them. 

“‘ _Here’s your blood money, mutant. Now be on your way_ ’ The fat one was about to draw his sword on you! Can you believe the ingratitude? You know what, you should have let him! Cut that miserable shit down at the knees and then done the same to the rest of them.”

“Then I’d no longer be The Butcher of Blaviken, but simply The Butcher. Bad for business.”

“The next time we run into an alghoul feasting on the local peasantry, I say we sit him down for a little chat and tell him all about this lovely little hamlet filled with fat, poxy cunts. Let the beast have its fill, it’d be doing the world a favor.”

Geralt smirked at the back of Jaskier’s head. He’d never seen the bard so incensed. It could be on account of the decided lack of appreciation the townsfolk had given his singing. To be fair, Jaskier hadn’t conducted himself in a manner that would loosen any pursestrings. 

They’d been met with barely concealed contempt from the moment they’d set foot in town. It had taken the deaths of half the population for them to finally pack their bigotry away long enough to call for a witcher. The kill hadn’t been too difficult, really, and as they’d waited in the tavern for their payment, Jaskier had started up a round of Toss a Coin. They didn’t want to hear it. They didn’t even want a witcher sitting at their tables, drinking from their cups. The barman had suggested they wait outside, or better yet, on the road just out of town. He’d send the alderman’s boy along with Geralt’s due. Jaskier, the peaking scent of blood and mace asserting his rising anger, jumped onto the central table and began to sing the song again as loudly as he could. He dodged vegetables and hunks of stale bread with practiced ease, never wavering in his voice as he belted at the beligerat crowd. Hands clawed at him, people screamed for him to shut up, witcher lover, fuck off. Geralt stepped in when it looked about to get violent, hoisting the still singing bard over his shoulder and carrying him outside.

Geralt heard the footsteps before Jaskier, dismounted.

“Hey! Hey witcher!” 

A boy struggled with a sack slung too low across his body, tangling his skinny legs as he ran to catch them. Jaskier glared at the approaching child, marching over to stand between them, as if the witcher needed protection from an incoming assault. A dormant, well forgotten thing twitched strangely at the gesture. Geralt couldn’t remember if there had been anyone, anywhere, who’d ever tried to stand up as his defender, even against something as amusingly feeble as an eight year old boy. 

“Here,” The child came to a halt, dug into his worn pocket and then flung something small and glinting into the air. Geralt caught it easily and surveyed his open palm. A copper, still warm from the child’s hand.

“What’s this?” Geralt asked.

“Like the song says,” he replied. “I like that song. I’m gonna sing it every day.”

“Oh, well thank you young man,” Jaskier’s defenses melting like sugar lace at the flattery. “At least there’s one person in that town with a little taste.”

“Did you steal this coin?” Nobody would blame the boy, if that were the case, when there was a witcher around.

“No sir,” The little thing jut up his chin. “That’s mine, earned it fetching water for this old lady. I’m saving up for a real sword just like yours. Don’t think I can be a witcher like you, but I want to be a queen’s guard when I get bigger with armor and a horse like that and if I’m good enough, maybe a bard will sing songs about me!”

“I don’t want your money.”

“You have to keep it,” the child argued. “That monster was going to eat us all up, but you saved us. I don’t want to get eat up, I want to be like in the song and pay a witcher his due. My friends are gonna be so jealous.” He removed the sack from his shoulder and thrust it toward Geralt. “I did steal this, though.”

Geralt opened the sack, Jaskier nudging in for a look as well. Wrapped in an oil stained cloth, still steaming and fragrant, was what looked like an entire roast chicken. Crammed in there also, two bottles of home brew wine and a slightly misshapen loaf of brown bread.

“I get famished when I do all my chores, and you killed a whole monster but they wouldn’t let you have no supper. My family can go hungry for one night if it means we get to wake up breathing.”

“I don’t think your parents are going to be very pleased with you.”

He puffed out his chest. “I can take it, I’m gonna be a queen’s guard.”

Geralt studied the boy, dug into one of his packs and withdrew a simple, bone handle dagger. 

“Can’t be a queen’s guard without a weapon. It’s sharp. Try not to cut yourself.”

“But feel free to practice on any of the townsfolk.” Jaskier quipped beside him, Geralt glared back.

The boy reached out slowly, as if Geralt might change his mind. Wrapping a tiny hand around the hilt, he stared down at the thing in awe.

“Thank you, witcher!” He shouted at them, tearing off the way he came with the dagger clutched to his chest, disappearing into the dark.

They found a spot to camp, built a fire, settled down in uncharacteristic quiet. Or rather, Jaskier was uncommonly quiet. The stars were bright and clear above them, the air cut with a touch of damp that brought a freshness without becoming unpleasant. The two men settled down to eat, Jaskier taking on the task of spreading out the food like a feast, gathering a few nearby flowering herbs to spread artfully around the blankets. Geralt raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The meat still held some warmth and it was deftly salted, the bread soft and delicious when smeared in the grease, the wine tart and so strong it stung their nostrils, burned their throats beautifully. They were well fed and nicely tipsy before the first bottle was empty. The fire popped, a bright shower of sparks arching up, vying for a place in the starry vault before dimming as they fell. 

“You gave away one of your weapons to a child. Isn’t that against your code or something?” Jaskier’s voice a boozy hush beside him. 

“Wasn’t my best knife.” Geralt grunted.

With the meal finished, the two of them propped side by side against a fallen log, the bard’s scent emerged above the sharpness of the wine, the smokey char of burning wood. There was something new there, sweet and soft, a caressing hint of blossoming honeysuckle that he’d never before encountered. Not in Jaskier, not in anyone.

Contrary to some beliefs, a witcher couldn’t scent all human emotions. It was the chemical response he detected, pheromones and sweat, blood rushing forth or draining away. If a sentiment lived only in the mind, though, there was nothing for him to distinguish. Jaskier took the bottle in hand, tipping back a healthy swig, and Geralt used the distraction to lean in slightly, draw a heavy breath. It was…...it was……

“I think I’ll write a song about him. I’ll call it The Last Light of Malleore. A boy as brave as any warrior, with a heart as brightly gold as a witcher’s eyes. Maybe someday he’ll hear it and know that it’s his. I wish we’d gotten his name.”

The fire crackled cheerfully, the wine nearly gone. Everything seemed wrapped in a blanket of soft wool.

“It’s unkind to compare him to a witcher’s eyes.”

“On the contrary, I think a witcher’s eyes are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Geralt turned to face him and Jaskier did the same. His cheeks were flushed, his lips stained red from the wine, blue eyes glittering glassy in the firelight. 

“I’m the only witcher you’ve ever met.” He’s not sure why he’s saying this. A curiosity, maybe, about that strange new scent, about the unknown alchemy that’s creating it.

“Then I must be accurate in my portrayal. _Rare and precious as a king’s treasure, shining from his noble face. The White Wolf, savior of Malleore, holds the glory of heavens in his gaze_. You know, some day I believe a dragon will swoop down from the sky and pluck out your eyes to place amid his hoard. Wait, that’s…...that sounds terrible out loud. Hang on, I think I’m quite drunk.”

“You don’t say.”

“Only one thing to do about that, and that’s get even drunker. Here,” He shoved the bottle in Geralt’s hand. “You’ve earned it.”

In two deep swallows it was drained. Geralt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched Jaskier struggle to open the second bottle, tripping sideways with the thing gripped between his knees. Striding over, he plucked the bottle away and pulled the cork with little effort. Jaskier grinned and reached for it, but Geralt put it to his lips and knocked it back.

“Hey. Hey!” Jaskier scrambled for the bottle but Geralt pushed him back without breaking his draughts. “You greedy oaf, give that here!”

Sighing in satisfaction, Geralt looked down appreciatively at the bottle, “Good wine.” 

Not so much the flavor, which was clearly not the primary concern, but the head numbing strength of it that’s overtaking even his significant tolerance. He extended the bottle to Jaskier, snatching it back just as the man reached for it, taking another long pull.

“You contemptible asshole!” Jaskier lunged but Geralt was too quick. Wrapping his right arm around the bard’s back, he pinned both his arms to his sides, using the leverage to secure Jaskier against his body. Now, chest to chest and bound, Jasier could do nothing but struggle impotently while Geralt polished off half their bottle right in his face.

He licked a droplet of wine from his lips and Jaskier suddenly went very still. Like a cloud of spores clinging to the breeze, the scent of desire swelled, different than before. Ale and earth, salt blood and night blooming lure mingled with the nectar of honeysuckle. He’d never smelled anything like it and was too drunk to stop himself from staring down at the bard, breathing it heavily. Jaskier watched him, silent and primed as a bow string. With an impulse he cannot explain, Geralt lifted the bottle and placed it to Jaskier’s lips. They stared at one another, confused, perhaps, watching, waiting to see what would happen, the moment fragile as the first ice upon a lake. The only sound between them was the sloshing of the wine as it flowed to Jaskier’s lips. He drank, throat contracting. Geralt watched it, fascinated. He removed the bottle, considered how enticingly red Jaskier’s mouth looked in the firelight while his eyes were as wide and searching as a babe’s. 

“More,” Jaskier rasped out.

The bottle lifted again, Jaskier drinking heavier this time, sucking greedily. Too much. Geralt squeezed him once, tight, breath halting at the sweetly pained moan that answered. Wine spilled from Jakier’s overfilled mouth, dripping down his chin. They’re both panting and shamefully hard against one another. It’s an abyss, with Geralt teasing the edge for too long. Gravity’s won, he crashed down on Jaskier’s mouth, licking the last of the wine from him for his own, searching for some dark source of that gorgeous scent. He’s holding Jaskier too tightly, kissing him too roughly. Gods, he’s drunk and starved for it but he’ll hurt him. He has to stop….he’s hurting him. Pulling away, relaxing the grip he’d gotten in the bard’s hair after dropping the bottle in the dirt at their feet, Geralt surveyed him, brows pinched.

“More.” Jaskier growled in a voice he’s never heard, commanding and low.

It said everything, it said let go, hold on, take, take again. Harder. As hard as you wish. Fitting Jaskier against him again, just the way he wanted, Geralt ground his aching cock against Jaskier’s own, licking his moans with a curling tongue, fastening the iron bands of his arms around the slim figure so he could flex and grind and dig his satisfaction out with purpose. There’s no give for Jaskier to reciprocate, his feet only brushing the ground as Geralt held him up and fucked their still clothed bodies together in a mad haze of wine and lust. Jaskier dropped his head back, away from Geralt’s harsh kiss, sang a note of mortal relief and came between them. He shouldn’t be rutting as hard as he was against Jaskier’s spent body, but Geralt can’t seem to get enough of the scent of him, huffing at his damp throat, biting the fragrant skin until he grunted, choking back the weaker noises that threaten to break free as he spilled hot and sticky in his breeches. 

He allowed himself a moment- just one delirious moment- to hold the bard still and savor the scent they made together.

(

)

They don’t talk about it.

They wake far too late. They stare at the empty bottles of wine between them. They stare at each other, silent, waiting. They don’t talk about it.

Travel is careful, slow, but when their bellies start to rumble they find a task and a topic to occupy the strange, stretching quiet. Things return to normal. Jaskier sings old songs, Geralt sharpens his swords by the fire, relieved. 

Unsettled.

No, relieved.

On the third day after leaving Malleore, Geralt woke to his medallion’s warning. Jaskier was gone. His provisions were still there, his lute. There are dozens of scenarios that race through Geralt’s head then, each one born of bloody experience. He grabbed his swords, followed the medallion’s pull. 

Prayed he was not too late.

Singing. Lovely and soft, married to the breeze. A woman singing. 

Not a woman.

The woods end abruptly, a cultivated field cut into the land but since abandoned. On a cluster of rocks just within the treeline sat Jaskier, staring off into the field and the figure swaying there.

She doesn’t move toward them, bending instead in a graceful dance that followed the wild grasses, beckoning to Jaskier as she sings. For a heartbeat, Geralt seized up, ready to restrain Jaskier should he feel compelled to travel out and join her. But he doesn’t. He’s watching the woman, chin perched on his folded knee, listening as one would to a ballad. Sweet songs that speak of terrible things. Taking another moment to be sure they’re in no danger, Geralt sheathed his sword, standing beside Jaskier on his rock.

“Midday bride.” He grunted.

“She’s lonely,” Jaskier replied, still watching the drift of the creature’s dance.

“And yet you feel no desire to join her?”

“No.” As if it were a silly thing to ask.

“Most men do.”

“You don’t.” Jaskier finally looked at him. There was a gentled current to his words, sadness maybe, Geralt couldn’t tell.

“I’m not most men.”

“I guess neither am I.” He sighed, returning his attention to the wraith in white, who reached for him, calling, unheeded. 

“Hm.” 

His silver sword flashed as he drew it with the quiet shish of metal against leather. 

“What are you doing?” Jaskier’s hand at his elbow, holding him back. “I mean, I know what you’re doing, but couldn’t we leave her? She’s not hurting anyone here, there isn’t a town for miles.”

Geralt stared down at him, wondering what it must feel like to know pity for a monster. 

“She’s suffering.” It’s not solely for Jaskier’s conscious, he knew how these cursed creatures were made, he knew without proof that he’s right.

Jaskier’s hand squeezed him once, then fell. He’s quick about it, merciful. To be fair, she doesn’t put up much of a fight. Maybe she believed he was joining her. Maybe she was welcoming him either way. 

They don’t move on that day. Instead, Geralt spent the time refilling his supplies with herbs he finds in the forest, hunting game. By the time night fell, Jaskier had a new song. It’s the story of a girl named Aster, cursed by heartbreak, lost in a nightmare and set free by the mercy of a witcher.

Jaskier sang it deep into the night, and Geralt fell asleep to the scent of honeysuckle.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier didn’t smell of fear when the djinn took hold of him, or when the healer warned he might die. He didn’t smell of fear when he woke to find Yennefer screaming into a vortex of ill magic or when Geralt was determined to march back into that madness. He smelled as he always did in times of chaos and blood, of panic, which was not the same thing. Panic was sour, sharp, but it held an undercurrent of prickling ozone- adrenaline, ready to fight, to run, to act.

There was no readiness to action in fear. It stank of putrid, curdled milk, the rancid gloom of a stagnant bog sitting unmoved, resigned to rot.

It was afterward, when Jaskier was cured, the djinn gone, Yennefer left sleeping in a pile of satin pillows and the two of them well down the road that Geralt realized that the scent of fear burning his nostrils was not some lingering cloud from the small clutch of witnesses to the djinn’s fury. It was Jaskier, safe and whole and with no present danger to face, stinking of fear. He didn’t understand, but he didn’t question it.

Jaskier had been away, embroiled in another tumult with the Countess de Stael. Split, again. It wouldn’t last long, it never did. In all their time together, the Countess’ name was the only one spoken with the bard’s wistful romance more than once. It had become clear, at some unknown point, that most of the time Jaskier spent away from Geralt’s side was spent between the Countess’ thighs. Drifting between one and the other, singing for his supper along the way. 

He didn’t question it.

Perhaps their break had been a bad one. Perhaps Jaskier, eager for a reprieve when things got particularly harrowing, as he was known to do, found a previous refuge closed to him. He had almost died, and soothing that terrible trial with soft words and a welcoming bosom wasn’t something he could enjoy with a witcher. 

Geralt hated the scent on Jaskier, but it didn’t last long. He didn’t question it, it slipped from his mind.

Until the day it knifed him once more, unexpectedly, in a tavern beside a mountain. It was the mage he feared, it seemed, reeking of it the moment Yennefer appeared across the room. It made sense-- Yennefer was powerful, she was reckless with that power, ambitious for things he was not sure could be named, ready to cleave the whole world in two to get what she desired. 

He found her fascinating. A good fuck, sure, he liked the rare indulgance of bedding magicly inclined creatures like himself. Living as many lifetimes as they did meant they knew how to fuck and fuck well. But in her he also found a fractured mirror, reflecting pieces of himself, someone that understood what it meant to be molded into what you are by the will of someone else. Powerful and feared and fetishized and alone. Expectations. Rules. Chaos. 

The Path, the Brotherhood. The veil between what men see and what they understand.

She was something new, and very little in Geralt’s life anymore was new.

So when they fought on the mountain, harsh and accusing, when she left with the promise never to return he snapped. 

Jaskier, soft and pleading, saying he understood, but he would never understand. Sometimes….sometimes it was just too much work. To navigate a world overrun by men that despised him, that shunned him, that could not appreciate the agony and terror of a small child forced to weather the trials of a witcher’s training or die. Moving among them, dependant on their coin, their shelter, their need of him. Yennefer had understood that. She was cold and dangerous and selfish, but she could understand and maybe he might have a moment or two in her company where he didn’t have to work so hard at being like a man. 

Not love, but reprieve. Like Jaskier enjoyed with the Countess.

But now he didn’t even have that. And Jaskier, fresh on the other side of another life-threatening adventure would fuck off to his Countess like he always did, soothing his hurts while Geralt was left alone. He should want to be alone, he was a witcher. A disgrace of a witcher, accustomed to a bard singing his praise, calling him friend with no expectations. A witcher yearning to call a half mad witch his compatriot just for the chance to speak of his past and not be looked at like he was a demon. A witcher who, if he made the same choices, would find himself tonight in an inn, drinking ale and sleeping in a bed paid for by a bard’s coin. What had he become?

So he screamed the first thing to mind, even though it didn’t make sense. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault, none of it was, but Geralt couldn’t keep him anymore. He had to follow the Path, and the Path was not meant for humans.

He didn’t watch him leave. Long after the footsteps faded from human hearing, Geralt stood at the mountain’s edge, tracking the scent of rust, of dried grass, of something hollow and abandoned in the sun. Another mystery, one he would never have the chance to unravel. 

(

)

It’s not that he’s following the bard from town to town, it’s that somewhere along the way the man had picked up on Geralt’s instincts and had begun tracing the map with the witcher’s own mind. At first he’d thought it intentional, waiting on each turn in the road, each room in the inn, for Jaskier’s blue eyes to peer back at him in feigned surprise at their chance encounter. But Geralt realized a month in, it was all just bad luck. He could tell, though, when he came across a tavern recently visited by the bard. It seemed the man’s talent for rousing emotion hadn’t gone fallow, but this time, instead of cheeky lust, the inns he haunted held that same tang of rust. People he asked confirmed, oh yes, there’d been a bard here, a good one. But he’d sung nothing but maudlin tales full of sorrow and broken vows and really, there was only so much they could stand. Sent on his way quickly after refusing at every turn to liven up his tunes. He wondered if Jaskier was doing it on purpose, souring the air every place he happened to visit. But it didn’t seem likely. How could he know where Geralt would be, how could he even know how far his talents carried?

Three months on and the trail of him faded, faded, stopped. 

Geralt was relieved.

(Unsettled)

Relieved.

Before he even made it into the central square of the village that’d sent for him he heard the tune. A chorus of voices merrily belting out a very, very familiar song. He’d hated that song, more so when some asshole got the novel idea to lob pennies at his head while he was trying to enjoy a meal in peace. But hearing it now quickened his pace. 

It wasn’t Jaskier. Leading the crowd, plucking flat notes from a poorly made lute, was a red-faced man, six feet of skin and bone, spidery limbs poking above the crowd as he sang his stolen tune. 

“It’s fair game, witcher!” He cried when Geralt had him pinned by the neck to the wall of the stable where he’d dragged him.

“Explain.” 

“The bard that wrote it, he don’t sing it no more! He don’t sing nothing for nobody but the court! That’s the code, if a bard don’t use his songs then anyone else with a voice can have a go at them! I swear!”

“Which court.”

“De Stael. So he won’t care if a few of us make a coin on his old trade, he’s been called up to a station. It’s every bard’s dream!”

Fuck.

Geralt released the man, who made a grand show of rubbing his abused neck. “If you have a drop of sense, you’ll never sing that song again where I might hear it.”

The man paled, nodded, skittered off. 

So Jaskeir had reconciled with his fair Countess for good and all. Installed as a court bard, rich and well fed and up to his teeth in willing maidens of high birth and low inhibitions. 

He’s never cleaved a monster straight in half on the first blow. He stared down at the still twitching remains of his contracted beast. That’s new.

)

(

“No.”

“You have to, you owe me.” Yennefer toyed with the trimming of her gown, violet eyes drifting around his meager lodgings until they landed on him in his silence.

“I owe you nothing.”

“Regardless of whether the dragon’s heart would have worked or not, it was an opportunity you stole when you conscripted me to help them. Do this for me and I’ll call a truce.”

“We are not at war.”

“No, but we’re not alias either. And with Nilfgaard marching we might some day need each other. I want a child and have none, you have a child and refuse it. We are both right and both foolish in our desires, we must accept that we will not agree. If our paths are destined to cross, it is better that we use it to our advantage.”

“You’re plotting something.” He growled, suspicions high.

“After my temper had cooled I did some research. Not my strong suit, but I know some people. Turns out, a dragon’s ability to read the future is unmatched. The words spoken by a dragon are always true.”

“What’s your point?”

“The words, Geralt. To speak of the future without unleashing chaos is a tricky thing. Dragon’s are intelligent, careful, you must listen to what it is they don’t say just as closely as what they do.”

“So what did the dragon not say to you?”

“You were there, you heard him. He said I would never get back my womb, he never said I wouldn’t have a child.”

This again. Fucking fuck.

“Yenn-- “

“All this time I’ve been focused on what they took, I’ve been reliving that moment where they held my bloody womb up to the light before burning it to a cinder and painting my body in it’s ash. But it’s a ritual, a sacrifice both real and symbolic and as such, it relies as much on my beliefs as it does the caster of the spell.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I believed that bit of flesh in my belly was the only way to have a child. But that is the truth of men, and I am a mage. It was a sacrifice, it was a symbol, it was a flower that needed to die. There is another way. A way dared only by a truly powerful mage that can give me what I want.”

“And if you’re not as powerful as you believe?”

“Then I die. A violent, prolonged death. There is only one mage who has ever cast the spell successfully. But if there was one there can be two.”

“Assuming you didn’t show up just to hear me tell you not to do this, where do I come in?”

“It is not one spell, but ten, each with conditions and requirements that must be performed exactly. In five days I am to attend the betrothal feast of a baronet who bedded and caught a girl slightly above his station. I need time with the girl, uninterrupted, but unfortunately this particular party will be hosting a number of guests who will….not be happy to see me.”

“So you want me to distract your enemies while you, what, rip the unborn babe from this girl’s belly?” Geralt scoffed.

Yennefer held up her hands in innocence. “No such thing! I promise you, no harm will come to her. In fact, she may even like it. You see, all I need is a few drops of her….essence….the more the better, so it is actually in my interest to make the procedure as pleasurable for her as possible.”

“There must be countless maids fat with some lord’s bastard, why not save yourself the trouble?”

Yennefer sighed as if truly regretful, “Because I’m afraid for the spell to work it must be this particular maid, with this particular bastard that I milk.”

He grit his teeth. It was never as simple as that with Yennefer, but the chance of putting their past hurt behind them was a temptation he couldn’t withstand. She was right. Some day, they’d need each other.

“Alright, fine. I will go with you to this party. But I’m not killing anyone.” A tiny flash of unease, realizing he’d been in this exact place before.

“Wonderful,” Yennefer grinned as if the outcome were never in question. “And for my sake, I’d prefer you in your witcher garb. Better to scare off the rabble.”

She was reading him, laughing at the images she stole of Geralt dressed as a silk wrapped fop. 

“Just tell me where to be.”

“Five days time, at sunset. The Court de Stael.”

She was gone in a cloud of perfume.

“Fuck.”

(

)

To her credit, Yennefer seemed genuinely intent on remaining as inconspicuous as possible. She’s dressed tastefully, rather than revealingly. She didn’t try to make an entrance or engage in social patter. She glided through the hall nodding and waving and Geralt soon realized it was at no one in particular, but merely to give herself an air of someone of high standing looking for the proper company. He hadn’t worn his armor, just his normal black attire that fit in rather well in this gathering. The swords, though, he kept. If a few people stare, they’re quick to hide it. The White Wolf was either a guest or a hired hand and either way it wasn’t worth their attention to care.

Geralt’s attention, however, was undivided.

Jaskier had not seen him yet, and Geralt did his best to keep it that way. He’d never heard any of the songs the bard ran through, one after the other from where he stood thronged by a band of musicians on a far platform. They weren’t very good. The crowd seemed to like them well enough, they were lively and good for dancing, but they didn’t have any of Jaskier’s previous wit, his ear for a well turned melody. 

He didn’t look right, either. Pale, sweating visibly, dark circles under his still arrestingly blue eyes. Maybe court life didn’t agree with him after all, he’d seen it in men before. Indulging in their every whim until sickness. His voice was still the same, though, clear and strong as a bird in the open sky.

“Come on,” Yennefer appeared beside him. “I need to make my introductions to the Count and Countess de Stael if I’m to get close to the girl. I need you at my side.”

His interest peaked. A chance to meet the famous Countess, face to face. He’d been watching her this evening, a jewel encrusted slip of a woman with dark ringlet curls and dark eyes couched at the head table and entertaining a waiting line of sycophants. Yennefer took his arm, lead him around the back of the hall to the other end of the table where a very striking, stalwart looking man surveyed the gathering, whispering his thoughts into his mother’s ear. He could feel the change in her posture, Yennefer’s conversion into the glorious, seductive, but available mage intent on winning that man’s notice.

“Your Excellencies, allow me the honor of an introduction. I am Yennefer of Vengerberg and this is my escort for the evening, Geralt of Rivia.”

“Well, well, what a lucky man I am, to have two such auspicious guests at my party that I’m sure I didn’t invite. This evening might turn out to be far more lively than I’d hoped.” He laughed. “If we’re to be formal about it, I, Count Tormin de Stael and my ever radiant wife the Countess, welcome you. I must say the two of you are far more lovely to look at than most of this flabby lot. May I offer you some wine? Come Yennefer of Vengerberg, sit beside me. I have a feeling you are most engaging company.”

Yennefer was gone from his side that second, and Geralt was left to stare at the Countess, confused, glancing over at the young woman with too many jewels and too many suitors and back again.

“The Duchess Jessamine of Redania,” The elderly woman acknowledged between bites of meat on her gold fork. “Shouldn’t think a witcher would have much interest in a squalling peacock, but it would be terribly amusing to watch you try.”

“I-- no I,” He stammered, uncharacteristically at a loss. “You’re the Countess de Stael?”

“I am, last I checked.” 

There had to be a mistake. She was firmly past sixty if she was a day, straight backed and sharp eyed, but those appeared to be her only two discernible attributes. This couldn’t be the woman Jaskier had run to all those years, composing songs of their passions, of smooth skin and dark, bewitching eyes.

Her eyes were green. And they were staring at Geralt as if inspecting a cow for butchery.

“You are….friends with Jaskier.” Geralt didn’t know how else to put it.

Beside them, the Count laughed heartily at something Yennefer said, ignoring them completely. The Countess seemed immune to such treatment, or accustomed to it.

“I’m afraid I don’t know any Jaskier. What’s his title?”

“The...the bard. Your bard. The one you hired. He’s singing just over there.”

“Oh, him.” The Countess barely offered a glance in Jaskier’s direction. “Never met him really, why would I? It’s not really done, now is it?”

What was she playing at? There were songs known throughout the Four Kingdoms about their affair, it wasn’t as if there was any sense in hiding it. Nobody would care, nobility fucked around with their peasants whenever they pleased and never felt any shame for it. What the fuck was going on?

There was probably some rule broken about not storming off in the middle of an audience with someone seven titles above you in rank, but Geralt didn’t give a necrotic fuck. Stalking down the center aisle, Geralt homed in on the musician’s platform, ignoring the shocked twang of the lute and the trembling whisper of his name when the bard saw him. He swept the man from his perch, through the tittering crowd, out the nearest door and into the first empty room he could find, locking it behind them.

“What the fuck is going on?” Geralt demanded.

“I could ask you the same question.” Jaskier pulled up, his shock overtaken by anger. “What are you doing here Geralt?”

“Yennefer, she needed my help.”

“Oh, _Yennefer_ , I should have known. Always lovely, mentally sound Yennefer leading the witcher around by the balls. How is she nowadays? Lovely? Mentally sound? I must say, I’m impressed with how quickly you two managed to reconcile. But I guess that can only be expected when Yennefer of Vengerberg wants something. Can’t imagine you coming all this way, crashing a party just to make amends to a sad, former friend. So it’s magic and intrigue, then, is it? Here to assassinate a few of the gentry? Take your pick, they’re all assholes just like you.”

He did his best to maneuver around the witcher, but Geralt had no intention of letting him pass. He was even paler up close than he’d looked under the wash of stained glass light in the hall. But the smell of him, gods it was almost too much. Everything he’d ever picked out from the bard swirling and colliding together, lighting up his senses. Rains and parched earth, iron bloody rust and sweet grass, truffles teasing in the rot of decay. Honeysuckle. That scent he’s never smelled before or since, that summer hazy bloom that coated the tongue, a drop of nectar, not enough. 

“The Countess.” Geralt spat. Jaskier froze, eyes darting around the empty room, nervous. 

“What about her?”

“She’s old.”

“Oh, yes, well...we do not get to choose the guise of our muse. Of that I can most assuredly attest.”

“And she does not know you.”

“Dear, sweet thing. I’m sure you understand. It is our….arrangement, you see. It’s one thing to indulge in the attentions of a traveling minstrel, but quite another to acknowledge such a dalliance with your own hired help.”

“You’re hiding something.” As soon as he said it he knew it to be true. 

“You know what Geralt, maybe I am. Maybe I’m hiding a whole continent’s worth of secrets from you, but you don’t get to have them. You tossed me off the side of a mountain and I barely survived. The _Countess_ took me in and maybe our arrangement isn’t ideal, but at least she never blamed me for ills in her life brought down by her own hand. I was a friend to you Geralt, I stood by your side through horrors other men, men better suited to the task, let me tell you, would have run from screaming. I gave you my companionship and my coin and my art, I never asked for more than the chance to travel beside you but you threw it all away for that bitch that never loved you.”

“I know.”

Whatever he’d been prepared to say next, died on his lips. 

“Wait...which part?”

“All of it.” Geralt let his arms drop to his sides, no longer fearful Jaskier might try to bolt. “I was upset and I used that to send you away. You were never to blame for any of it, I know that Jaskier. I knew that then but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Breaking my heart was the right thing to do?”

“If it meant you wouldn’t follow me, if it meant I did not have to keep seeing you walk into danger wondering if this was the time I’d fail to protect you. And then I heard you were here, with your Countess, and I did not want to ruin any happiness or comfort you had found by seeking you out. You have been my friend Jaskier, but I have not always been a friend to you. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier deflated at that. He’d never been very good at holding a grudge. “I’m….thank you Geralt. I never thought I’d hear you say that. I wasn’t sure witcher’s knew how to apologize.”

“We know how. We just don’t make a habit of it. Bad for business.”

It got him a small laugh, small but precious. 

“Then I consider myself honored. Come on, let’s get back to the party. I’m sure your lady love is missing you already.”

“Yennefer’s not my love.”

“.....what?” 

“I don’t love her. She doesn’t love me. We share a common past, living lives that were chosen for us. She...understands things. That is rare for a witcher to find, I did not want to lose it.”

“But...but you and she….you’ve been sleeping together for years.”

Geralt shrugged, “I sleep with a lot of people, as do you. You and your Countess have certainly shared many seasons together and I don’t think you love her either. Men in love do not use the word _arrangement_.”

“No,” Jaskier admitted. “They don’t.”

Geralt would have said, to anyone stupid enough to ask, that he’d never been jelous of anything or anyone a day in his life. But when it felt like he could suddenly breathe again after too long under water, he knew he’d been carrying that burden unseen for longer than he’d realized. 

And it was not the only thing he’d been oblivious to, was it. Looking at Jaskier now, dressed as richly as he could ever want, surrounded by luxury and acclaim, a strong roof over his head, the promise of coin and days spent in safety and not mucking about with a witcher doing the exact opposite of what he was built to do-- it snagged a tiny tear Geralt had not known existed in his chest and _pulled_. Gods, how had he never worked it out before? All these years and Geralt had convinced himself he’d been letting the bard tag along because he...what, smelled good? Was useful at convincing a town not to curse his name and lock their doors against him? He’d _wanted_ Jaskier by his side. Days without him were tedious and wearing but it had never once occurred to him the reason might be loneliness, that he might _miss_ the man’s company; Kaer Morhen had taught him, and he’d told himself, that witcher’s didn’t feel such things.

He wanted Jaskier by his side.

He...he wanted Jaskier.

There it finally was, taking one step into the light, the admission of a thing that had been following him all this time, revealing itself now that he was ready to see it.

“Jaskier,” A plea from a voice unused to pleading. Geralt backed Jaskier up against the door, falling into the bard’s warm lips, slipping his tongue into that wet, welcoming heat and giving no room for breath before he was kissing his lost song bird with everything he had. A nasal sob, hands clawing at his shoulders and back as Jaskier kissed him back with just as much ferocity. Fuck he smelled divine, that brush of honeyed flowers to his senses, a bewitchment that conquored his defenses with quiet ease.

“No- Geralt stop,” Jaskier twisted his head away, snaked his body out of Geralt’s grip. “I don’t-- why are you doing this?”

Never one to force his hand, Geralt released Jaskier quickly, confused. 

“You want me, too. I can smell it.”

Jaskier laughed, a manic, desperate thing, “Of _course_ I want you, Geralt, I’ve _always_ wanted you! I can’t fucking seem to help it, can I? But I’m not like _her_. I can’t be your friend and your convenience both, just an easy way to scratch an itch on the road.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Isn’t it? Then what is it? _Tell me._ Because I know where I stand. I put up with it, I put up with the unrivaled shit you put me through for years because in my heart I believed you wouldn’t understand. Witchers don’t feel, they say, except that they do. You feel, witcher, you just forgot to fucking mention that in time. And now I’m--”

Jaskier gasped back a sob, looking away. Geralt bent to meet his eyes, “You’re what?” He grabbed Jaskier by the arms, holding back the urge to shake him. “You’re _what_?”

“I’m leaving!” Trying to jerk away, free himself, flee, but Geralt wasn’t allowing it. “Let go. Let _go_!”

A scent hit him, one he knew very well.

“You’re bleeding.” 

Had he hurt Jaskier? The thought sickened him, freezing his veins. It was beneath his clothing, tiny wells of fresh blood seeping into cotton. He tore at the buttons and laces, ignoring Jaskier’s protests, the increasing struggle to break away.

Scars. A block of faint lines, red but healing on his left shoulder. Geralt shoved the open doublet and shirt down over Jaskier’s shoulders until they caught on his elbows. Angry red lines, cleanly cut and healing in the soft inner flesh of his arms, more under bandages that had become aggravated in their struggle, blooms of red against white linen.

“Who did this.” The weight of a vow unspoken shaking the very stones at their feet.

Jaskier glared at him, a hurt Geralt cannot accurately measure shining from his eyes. He gathered the disarray of his clothing and swung the door open, every intention of leaving Geralt there, unanswered. But someone was waiting outside, gliding in to join them, wrapping a possessive arm around the trembling bard and pulling him in close.

“I’m afraid I did, Geralt of Rivia.” The Count de Stael purred in a smooth baritone. “An unfortunate, but necessary, part of our arrangement.”

It took a shameful accumulation of seconds for Geralt to understand, looking between Jaskier, eyes downcast and tucked snugly beneath a velvet clad arm, and the vaguely amused expression on the Count’s handsome face. And he was handsome, strikingly so, dark hair streaked with distinguished grey, dark almond eyes under thick brows. He looked to be of Geralt’s age, if Geralt were presently human, regal but solidly built, strong, like a number of his years had been spent with a sword in his hand.

“It was never the Countess. It was you.”

“Correct, well aren’t you clever.”

“But the songs, Jaskier, when you spoke of her….”

“Maybe not so clever after all.” The Count didn’t try to hide his increasing enjoyment of the situation.

“What was I to say, Geralt,” Jaskier finally looked at him. “What was I to do? If you could do your job without letting people know you’re a witcher, save yourself all that hatred and abuse, wouldn’t you do it? Imagine now you have no swords or skills with which to defend yourself, what then?”

“I wouldn’t have cared.” Geralt said.

“Maybe not about that, but that wasn’t the only thing I had to fear, was it? Witcher’s aren’t supposed to have feelings.” He accused, angry. “Whenever I couldn’t hide it any longer, how much I wanted you, I left. I thought-- I thought if I had time, space, somewhere to release all my pent up frustrations-” 

At that de Stael squeezed Jaskier knowingly, a self-satisfied smile curling his lips. Geralt had never wanted to gut a man more in all his life.

“-then maybe I could go back to being your friend. I kept waiting for it to fade, to…. If you couldn’t feel things like I did…..But you do, you bastard. You showed me the man that you are, the one you hide from the world and my fate was sealed.”

Geralt searched his face for the answer.

“He’s in love with you witcher.” The Count sighed, “And it is a different kind of hell to love a man who cannot feel such things for you as opposed to a man who will not.”

“How long.” He asked only Jaskier, unable to drag his voice above a whisper.

“The child, in Malleore. A man who does not feel cannot show such kindness. And then that night….”

Honeysuckle, sweet on the vine, plucked with playful fingers, the sun on his face. Geralt thought back to all the moments that scent had found him, how it haunted when Jaskier was gone, how he’d looked for its equal and came up empty over the span of years. 

“You love me.”

A single tear cut a glittering track against the pallor of Jaskier’s cheek. Even the tiny drop of salt water held a trace of that flower.

“And yet you come here to him. A man who hurts you. Why?” Geralt snarled. His hands itched to wield a weapon, to see if the Count’s insides were as shiny as the jewels he wore. Intuiting the witcher’s thoughts, the Count held Jaskier closer.

“Because it is the lesser of the two pains.”

“My little lark is no victim here,” de Stael waved a dismissive hand. “A hurt for a hurt. He gave me this.”

From the depths of his opulent robe, the Count de Stael drew a small, ornate knife. Geralt’s never seen it’s like. Pure silver, hilt to tip, the body a figure of a wolf leaping, jaws agape, it’s tail the curved blade. The Count held it in his open hand for Geralt’s inspection. Two yellow tourmalines glint back from the wolf’s eyes. With his teeth, the Count removed one of the leather gloves he’d been wearing, traded the knife for his bare hand.

The skin smoked as it burned.

“He is so magnificently dramatic, our little bard, isn’t he? All that love and desire and heartbreak. His humor and his terror, anger and joy. The poetry of him, gods, I can’t tell you how rare a treasure he has turned out to be. Men tire, they bore, they grow weary and stale, but not our little bard. Every day with you makes him richer, more passionate, more…..alive.”

Quicker than Geralt could react, quicker than any man could ever move, the knife flashed through the air, cutting a small line beneath Jaskier’s bare collarbone. He didn’t even flinch.

“He is a banquet, dear Geralt, and where you shun such bounty I worship it.”

Drawing a single finger through the garnet trail, the Count sucked the blood into his eager mouth.

“ _Vampire_.” Geralt hissed, inflamed. 

“I am no savage monster, witcher. My thirst is a matter of pleasure, not need, one easily negotiated with willing, fully informed partners. I give him pleasure, shelter, an understanding ear and the promise never to turn him. And in return, he provides me with a taste of the most exquisite vintage I’ve had in centuries. This little interaction alone has seasoned him magnificently. I think I’ll be quite drunk on his heartbreak for a month at least.”

“I’ll kill you first.”

“Oh come now Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken, surely you must know that killing a higher vampire such as myself is an impossibility, even for someone with your considerable talents.”

“Not impossible.” He drew his silver sword, stance ready.

“Improbable enough to be impossible. I don’t wish to fight you, this is my home and it took a rather long time to decorate, but if you insist on it I _will_ kill you.”

“ _No_!” Jaskier gasped, gripping at the Count’s robes. “Don’t you fucking touch him!”

“You see? Do you really want to do that to your friend? And let’s not forget in our brutish fervor, that in the end this was Jaskier’s decision.”

Lowering his sword and inch, Geralt reached a hand out, pleading. “Come with me, please.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt’s outstretched hand, then his face, in agony. 

“I can’t,” He sobbed, the broken sound of it shattering against the stone walls. “I can’t go back to the way things were, traveling beside you and aching every minute of every day. So close and yet hiding, waiting for every fleeting touch you might give, every rare smile. I remember all of them, Geralt. They’re burned into my skin and bones and I’ve traced them over and over into madness. I have deluded myself so many times into thinking I was in love before I met you, I staked my profession on it, but it’s all been a farce, hasn’t it? The moment you put your dagger into that child’s hand I felt that blade sink just as sweetly into my bosom. I realized I loved you, that I would always love you, but I could survive such a hurt because you could never be mine. And then you kissed me, and twisted that knife until I bled out over your hands. I cannot carry that on the road with you now that you know, exposed to your indifference, or worse yet, your pity. You-- _ah_!”

The Count’s lips came away dripping, his teeth red from the new cut opened with unholy speed on Jaskier’s slim wrist. 

“Sorry, just couldn’t resist. His torment is divine, you really have inspired something exceptional here, witcher.”

All Geralt knew was fire, a rush of winds, action and responses woven into his very materials with mutagens and grim training. The three of them were pressed together now, Jaskier held in the Count de Stael’s arms, his ragged breath caressing Geralt’s cheek. Geralt and the vampire eye to eye and sneering, the silver sword hilt deep between the monster’s ribs.

“Well look at you!” The Count chuckled, delighted. “You took me genuinely by surprise, witcher, I commend you.”

A hand around his neck and then Geralt was flying through the air, bloody sword in hand until his back hit the unforgiving bricks and it went clattering to the ground beside him.

“You’re going to make me kill you, aren’t you?” The Count sighed, bored sounding. Jaskier struggled and shouted for Geralt, reaching for him, but de Stael had no interest in letting him go. “And for what? You can’t possibly want him in the same way, can you? It would be kinder of you to leave him to me. In my care he will be kept safe from the cruel specter of love.”

“You would keep him as a fatted calf to feed on, I won’t allow it.” Geralt snarled, leaping to his feet, gathering his sword. He didn’t have potions, he didn’t even have his armor. There was no way he could survive the fight to come, not against a higher vampire-- de Stael, damn him, had been right about that. Geralt readied himself for another charge. “I won’t allow _any_ monster to use him for its own hunger. Not you…. and not me.”

“Geralt, _please_ ,” Jaskier begged. “Walk away. You have no obligation here. I forgive you, we’re friends again, alright? Take Yennefer and go, let me live out my days knowing you’re out there on the Continent, decimating monster for ungrateful peasants, glaring at barkeeps, talking to Roach when no one’s around.”

The Count licked at Jaskier’s sluggishly bleeding wrist. The leather wrapping of his sword hilt creaked in Geralt’s hands. 

“Sound advice, witcher, but you won’t take it. You’ll come at me again with all your barbarous anger and won’t make it three steps before I rip your heart from your chest. And then my sweet Jaskier will only taste of sorrow for a time before fading to wane desolation. It really is rude of you to spoil such a delicacy. It seems I’ve no choice left but to decant the whole bottle, would be a shame to waste it.”

A silver flash of the dagger above Jaskier’s throat, his head twisted cruelly to the side by the Count’s hand in his hair. The vampire’s face took form then, teeth instantly gleaming fangs, eyes blazing with hellish fire, deep lines shadowed in the craggy clefts of his shifting bones, the features of a demon mocking the Count’s previous beauty. He saw it then, the spray of ruby blood, the greedy sucking maw of the vampire draining the life from his bard, his Jaskier. Geralt saw it all before it happened, just outside his reach, just beyond his power to stop. 

Screaming screaming screaming.

In fear. In terror.

That was new.

His arm shot out on instinct, a blast of Aard unlike any he’s ever performed. The room stripped to bare stone, rugs and tapestries flying, tables winging high, chairs smashed to tinder, Jaskier and the Count flung across the room. Jaskier hit the opposing wall with a concussive thud, while the Count, failing in his attempt to brace in time, was twisted and spun and catapulted through the window. Geralt ran, skidded on his knees, scooping the groaning bard into his arms. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier croaked, rubbing his head, smearing a trickle of blood down the side of his face.

There wasn’t time. With less care than he wanted to, Geralt hoisted Jaskier fully in his arms. “Hold on.” Squeezing the man to his chest when he felt the slim arms wrap around his neck. He ran out the door, down the hall. Music was still playing but the voices were louder, discordant with concern. 

“Yenn,” He shouted, tearing into the hall, plowing through the crowd that shied back gasping at the sight of him. “ _Yenn_!”

But she was already hurrying to him from a separate hall, the haste in her steps indicating she was of equal mind to leave and leave quickly.

“You better have what you came for.”

She offered one pointed look at the dazed, bloodied body in his arms, smiled at him though her violet eyes were as shrewd as ever. “You certainly know how to create an adequate distraction.”

The front of the hall was already filling with guards, Count de Stael, his robes and composure in tatters, bringing up the rear, his human features twisted with murder. Yennefer didn’t hesitate, cut back the way she came, her arm already swirling a vortex. The portal showed a hillside, green pasture bathed in moonlight. They ran through, kept running. The sounds of shouting snipped off as the portal closed, but Geralt didn’t stop. 

“Gors Valen, south of the market.”

“There are better places to hide him.” Yennefer said, coming to a halt.

“We’re not going to hide.” 

“I think we should hide.” Jaskier piped up weakly from Geralt’s arms.

“He’ll be on you in days,” She argued. 

“Hours,” Geralt grunted. “Right now he’s likely a giant bat tracking us over miles. We can’t hide from him, not with Jaskier bleeding.”

“He’s one of the higher vampires,” Yennefer hummed, not at all alarmed sounding. “Well that does explain a few things. But what’s in Gors Valen that could possibly protect you from a wrathful vampire?”

“Someone who owes me a favor.”


	4. Chapter 4

Jaskier’s on his feet again, but Geralt wouldn’t let him go, stalking through the busy streets with one arm securing Jaskier to his side, the other ready to reach for a sword at any moment. Nobody paid them any mind, not two bloodied, fight worn figures hurrying through the night, it was the city, one saw such things on every street. 

The house was crammed in with all the others in the row, narrow, but tall and deep. The only thing to distinguish it among the other houses was the red painted door with the gold handle. This one was always open, Geralt knows. It’s the black lacquered door with the barred window beyond it that was heavily locked. He didn’t need to knock, the curtain behind the window drew back, a pale, plainly featured girl looking them over.

“We don’t serve witchers here. And your friend would be advised to find another establishment in that state.”

“Tell her it’s Geralt of Rivia, and I’m here to collect.”

The curtain snapped closed. It was dark in the anteroom, Jaskier’s breathing loud in his ears, but he remained otherwise quiet. Geralt held him closer.

The door swung open slowly. He hadn’t heard any footsteps coming or going, not that he expected he would. The woman standing before them looked as regal as any queen and deadly as any witcher. Everything about her was red, her hair, the paint on her full lips, the garnets at her throat, the heavy satin fall of her daringly cut dress. Beyond that the carpets, the walls, the crystal of the chandeliers, the velvet of the sofas were all their own deep version of red. Only pale arms and shoulders, skeins of dark hair, pink of licking tongues broke the disorienting saturation of palette. Every one of the women lounging about were beautiful beyond measure, full breasted, wantonly posed or drifting coquettishly around the drawing room, seeking an appreciative eye. Instead of perfume, the air hung with incense, smokey and herbal, fuzzing the mind pleasantly, putting everything into soft focus. A charm, he knew, one that even worked on him, but he didn’t need the suggestive blur of the concoction, Geralt was already well aware of what they were.

“So today is to be the day.” The woman before them stated in an undefinable accent. “Am I to assume it will not be so simple as a night of your wildest desires sated by my girls?”

“Is that on the table?” Jaskier laughed, unable to help himself. Geralt scowled at him.

“Do you know the Count de Stael?” Geralt asked her. She raised a dark brow.

“Are you asking if I know of him, or _know_ him?” Geralt remained silent. “Ah, well then yes. We know him. But we do not engage. If it’s knowledge you seek of him, I have none.”

“He’s coming to kill us. Right now.”

They stared at one another unblinking.

“If we help you, not all of us will survive.”

“None of you would have survived this long without my help.”

“Even if we do what I believe you’re asking us to do, we will lose everything here.”

“And the Count’s lands will be leaderless, the struggle to claim his place battering many wealthy, influential men who might appreciate the exceptional services of a new brothel in their city to soothe their troubles.”

“And you will let us continue on as before?”

“The continent is vast, I only travel where I am needed. If men are not dying and the peace is kept, there is no coin to be made. Witchers do not work for free.”

“No, they do not. But your price is fair. I accept. There is a room on the third floor, first door on the right. Take it as yours and clean him up, his present condition is making my girls agitated.”

(

)

Silks and satins in reds, violets and pinks hung from the ceiling and walls, layers of plush carpet sink beneath his feet, like walking on marsh lands. It looked like something Yennefer might conjure as her lodgings if she were feeling particularly indulgent. Jaskier saw none of it, opening chests, digging under pillows, tearing back draperies to look for secreted alcoves.

“Where-- what do we need, potions, right? And we have none. Why can’t there be a hidden cache of weapons in a brothel when you need one?”

“Jaskier, come here.”

He doesn’t look up, determined in his search. “There has to be something here we can ready, something we can use to protect us.”

“I’ll protect you.”

Jaskier finally looked at him, hands falling limply at his sides, resigned. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for bringing this down upon you. But why the fuck didn’t you leave when you had the chance? You know what, I take back my apology, you did this to yourself. Why couldn’t you just leave me be? Is it pride? Some twisted sense of witcher honor? I’ve known what he was for longer than I’ve known _you_! It was simple with him it was….it was fucking _business_.”

“He would have bled you dry.” Geralt didn’t snarl, he didn’t growl. The thought of such a thing happening to Jaskier left him hollow.

“And I would have _thanked_ him for it! You-- you fill me with too much, Geralt. Every time we’re together I’m boiling alive, I feel as though my skin will split with it and the whole great mess will spill out, bubbling at your feet and...and it would disgust you, it would repulse you to see my insides like that, or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe you wouldn’t even care. That would kill me, Geralt, literally kill me. At least with him I felt I had some control, let him siphon off a little when it got too much, and oh it would feel so lovely and cool for a time. For a moment, right after he’d fed from me, it was almost as if I could bare it.”

“Jaskier,” He stalked forward.

“No,” Jaskier skittered back. “There isn’t time for this, we have to prepare.”

Geralt stared at him another moment, then removed his swords, placing them by the bed. There’s a basin and a pitcher of water on a high table. He poured the water, looked about, chose a clean looking drape and tugged it off its hanging. With teeth and strong hands Geralt ripped the cloth to pieces, placing them aside the bowl. 

“Yes, good, what is this, alchemy?” Jaskier, curious, came up cautiously behind him to watch. “What can I do to help?”

“Stand here,” He leaned Jaskier against the table, stood before him, pushed his shirtsleeves higher. Gently, Geralt dipped a handful of red silk into the water and drew it down the side of Jaskier’s face. The streaks of blood go smeary and bright. Jaskier jerked away at the first touch, realizing what Geralt meant to do, but the witcher wasn’t having it. With a hand fisted in the stained doublet, Geralt jerked him back into place none too gently, shoving forward enough that his hips pinned the bard against the table, freeing his hands to do their work.

“Trellis and her girls must not be distracted. If we are to survive, it will be because of them.”

“I take that to mean they are not exactly your standard collection of women of ill repute?”

“Bruxae, an old nest that has found a way to exist unnoticed. They do not kill, but I’m told your blood is….exceptional.”

A trickle of water in the bowl harsh as broken glass. More blood came away under Geralt’s hands. The cut wasn’t large and it’d stopped actively bleeding, a good thing, but Geralt tried not to think that it may be because Jaskier had less to spare. He’s so very pale, with dark bruising circles under his eyes. Geralt traced the silk over his brow, his cheekbones, his lips and jaw, everywhere he wanted to touch with bare fingers.

“There is no mutagen for killing emotion,” He said as the cloth was rinsed and wrung. “They do not want us to be soulless, they want us in control. They teach us what we need to survive the Path and nothing more.”

The buttons and laces of Jaskier’s clothes were never fully righted, Geralt tugged them open wider to get at the Count’s handiwork. Jaskier jerked away again only to be shoved back into place, the doublet and shirt yanked over his shoulders to pool at his waist. Jaskier struggled to free his arms from the material but Geralt, uncertain what he’d do once he succeeded, got a hand in the back of Jaskier’s hair to hold him. He tugged away again, once, but Geralt’s hold was unyielding. They breathed through their noses like panting horses, Jaskier’s mouth twisting and twitching under his refusal to speak, his expression pained.

“No one loves a witcher. It’s impossible, it doesn’t make sense.” Geralt sounded angry, he knew he sounded angry but the churning in his gut knew only one way of expression. “How could I know that scent was your love, that haunting fucking beautiful scent that’s been breaking me to pieces. It’s not allowed. _I’m_ not allowed.”

“Allowed to what,” Jaskier heaved, licking his lips, baring his teeth. “To feel?”

“ _To want it!_ ” Geralt trembled as he shouted. Was this how Jaskier felt around him? Fragile as fine crystal, hoping to withstand the oscillations of all these swelling emotions? It was terrible and terrifying and yet….

And yet….

“You’re not a monster, Geralt,” As if understanding all at once what had really been said in the Count’s rooms.

“You’re a fool.” Running his nose, the membrane of his lips up Jaskier’s bared chest, up the chord of his neck much as any animal would its helpless prey. “I would consume you. I would take your body and your words and your songs and all your victories and failings, I would take all the days you had remaining and I would pin them beneath me and never let another soul look upon you. How is that not monstrous?”

“It’s only monstrous if I’m unwilling.”

“Don’t _test_ me bard,” He snapped right in Jaskier’s face. Beautiful Jaskier who didn’t blink at a witcher’s righteous fury, who understood only just that moment what the involution of his scent, langrouous with need as it was, could do to Geralt. He arched against Geralt’s hold, smart as any lamia, and Geralt had to shut his eyes tight to withstand it. Fuck, but the smell of him, there was no mercy in it. “The things I want from you…..I’ll take everything from you Jaskier, do you understand? I do feel- _gods_ you make me feel- but it’s not allowed...I can’t….it’s not beautiful or gentle, it’s…...I would protect you from it. I would see you safe, in a warm home, with a wife. I would see you far from witchers and their grisly profession.”

“Geralt,” Hands that cradle his face, thumbs sweeping over his eyebrows. “Geralt look at me.” Jaskier’s breath hitched when their eyes finally met, emotion caught and traded for control. “Do you love me?”

“I- I don’t know.” Geralt whispered. How could he? It was a word never uttered in the halls of Kaer Morhen. “If that’s what I feel for you, you don’t want it.”

“Geralt, listen to me.” Jaskier pushed him back a step, enough room between them for his earnest plea to be heard. “My love for you is not like the songs I sing. Those tales are lies for children and drunks. Love is fucking harrowing. It’s- it’s a living black tar that’s stained me, that I cannot be clean of no matter how hard I’ve tried. It grows barbs with each day that passes without you and digs those thorns deeper into my heart every second I’m beside you. No amount of you will ever be enough. If I were to live a long, happy life where you are mine I will still die with regrets that I could never discover the trick of burrowing inside the very marrow of you to make as my home. We were not made for timid lives, why should our love be any different?”

It hung there, suspended between them, proof that Jaskier shared a measure of this thing that had been tormenting Geralt. That he knew what to call it, that maybe-- _gods please_ \-- he might have the skill to navigate it for the both of them.

If Jaskier had claimed any privilege to walk away from Geralt before, that option was gone now. Crashing into him, hoisting the slim body in his arms to press him against the wall, the billowing silks doing little to soften the impact. Jaskier huffed, the wind knocked from him roughly-- moaned roughly. Despite a long life and the many partners therein, Geralt had seldom been kissed, initiated even less. Even with the promise of coin, most did not want such an intimacy with a witcher. The opposite was true of Jaskier, who likely kissed as many people as he could get away with. The enthusiastic abandon Jaskier had met him with on that first wine-tart kiss so long ago had not been a consequence of the spirits, yet again he threw himself into it with the same approach he did everything, eager, voracious, a little clumsy. 

Jaskier was wild beneath his lips, and Geralt found himself responding in kind, releasing a fraction of his iron control, letting his desire fill him, direct him, push his weight and his strength a little more to keep the writhing body in his arms where he wanted. It only inflamed Jaskier further, who was doing his best to taste and bite and suck at Geralt’s mouth in every way he knew how at once. Geralt drove his tongue deep into Jaskier’s mouth again and again, a statement, a contract, then he fell onto the soft skin of Jaskeir’s neck, fragrant with the tincture of his desperation. An overwhelming urge to bite down deep into the giving flesh surged through him, see if the flavor of him married the scent. He didn’t, he wasn’t that far gone, but oh it was a delicious danger. Instead he sucked a mouthful of tender skin with more force than he’d ever dared with another, set his teeth marks down around the bruise and revelled in the high, thready wails it pulled from his little bard.

Geralt had been drugged before, many times. He’d been poisoned, doused in elixir, enchanted twice, bespelled fairly annually and on one occasion possessed by a wind demon. But never had he felt the limits of his control before as he does now. 

And Jaskier was closer than any other creature had come to breaking them.

“Fuck yes, let me wear your seal to my grave. Make me feel you witcher, come on.”

He took Geralt’s lips again, managed to make him grunt with pleasure before he was pushed off. Jaskier looked dazed and bewildered with those damned eyes of his, fashioned of such innocent stuff that inspired the most profane impulses. Geralt ripped the disordered clothes from Jaskier’s waist, tore at the fastenings of his breeches and shoved them roughly down his legs. Jaskier’s cheeks went red, he stammered, covering, then uncovering the pretty flushed curve of his prick with his hands. Geralt couldn’t help but smirk as he moved to the table, riffled through the jars and bottle there until he found the one he wanted. 

“Do not misunderstand me, I want you so bad it _literally_ hurts, but we don’t have time.”

Geralt pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spit it across the room as he stalked back.

“I’ve had lifetimes without this. If we’re to have only minutes left to live, you will spend them on my cock.”

“Oh fuck-” 

It was all he managed to gasp before Geralt got a hand on him, spinning him round, pressing him flush to the wall. Oiling his fingers hastily, Geralt shoved in behind him, making good and sure not to grant an inch of space. With only a cursory trace to find his mark, Geralt drove one slick finger into that clenching heat, the oil soothing any resistance. He thrust in only twice before adding another finger, holding them in deep just to hear Jaskier keen.

“You’re tight.” Geralt growled in Jaskier’s ear, rubbing his leather clad erection on the bare curve of the bard’s ass. Tight and scalding hot and silken inside and Geralt’s restraint was wearing thin. He added another finger with a decisive shove.

“Yes, well, contrary to popular belief I don-- _ho oh fuck_ \-- don’t do this often.” Jaskier gasped and writhed, jittered away at the sudden stretch then pushed back into it just as quickly. “Too many times calling out your name, even when I topped a lad, even with a few women which was not easy to explain, let me tell you. Tormin was the only-- _ah AH_ \-- only one that didn’t care when I begged for you.”

Geralt screwed his fingers in a dirty twist and bit down around the knob of Jaskier’s neck. “I will make you beg for me now, and I will be the only one to do so from now on. If we survive this night the only release you will know for the rest of your days will be that which I give you.”

Jaskier sobbed as if already in danger of spilling. “ _Please_ , gods please don’t make me wait any longer. Fuck me, Geralt, right now. _I’m begging you_.”

“Feel this,” He twisted one of Jaskier’s hands behind him and shoved it against his massive bulge, his splayed palm only covering a fraction of its girth. “You have never had its like, I can tell.” He pistoned his fingers deeply into Jaskier’s body in counterpoint. “I will have you screaming on this but not from pain.”

“Cruel, cruel, cruel,” Jaskier panted and moaned as Geralt, quickly as he dared, carefully as he could, opened Jaskier up for him. But when the bard muscled back, propped his hands against the wall and bodily fucked himself on Geralt’s fingers with abandon, Geralt gave up a measure of caution. Winding his free arm around Jaskier’s neck, his shoulders, Geralt pinioned him in place and wormed in a fourth finger. As if they had all the time in the world, he stroked the inner walls of Jaskier’s channel, spreading his fingers and making him hold perfectly still for the treatment. He glanced once, twice against the swollen nub inside him, made note of its location then missed it purposefully from then on.

When he was satisfied with the waning resistance, when Jaskier’s words and begging snarls had reduced to no more than huffed sobs expelled with every thrust, Geralt pulled back, flung the bard face down on the table and set to work unlacing his breeches. More oil for the shining pucker that fluttered at him, more for his freed cock that slapped heavily down on the creamy mound of Jaskier’s ass. It was such a perilous indulgence, one he’d never considered before. The bard splayed naked and wanting while Geralt stood above him fully dressed with cock in hand, ready to decide how he would take his pleasure. The mewling little noises the bard made while he waited, shivering, the smell of earthen lust, Geralt savored it all for a drawn out moment, realizing that perhaps his need for control had deeper layers than he’d considered. 

A hand at the bard’s neck, a gentle one, then Geralt slid against his entrance and pushed. Slow but adamant, keeping a steady pressure until he watched the crown of his staff disappear inside Jaskier’s body. It was mesmerizing. It was so fucking beautifully tight and hot that Geralt thought he would go mad from the restraint. Another inch, forever and forever to get there, listening to the exact modulations of Jaskier’s cries, scenting the air for pain, for fear, unbelieving when he could’t find it. Another inch, another lifetime to get there. Jaskier cursed and cursed and pounded the tabletop with his fist.

“Am I hurting you?”

“Unh- _fuck_ \- no it’s…. _gods above_ it’s not enough.”

“Good,” Geralt repositioned his hand-holds to wrap around Jaskier’s shoulders and set his stance. “Then bear down and breathe because you’re going to take this cock.”

Jaskier sobbed at the promise of mercy, gripped the table and wailed as Geralt drove the whole monstrous length of himself all the way in. Sweat and oil, salty skin and the deep, midnight musk at place they were joined, Geralt buried himself in it, drowned himself in the scent of Jaskier beneath him. The fizz of hormones, the watery trickle of precum, Geralt tried to lick them all from Jaskier’s skin, forgetting for a moment any other task until Jaskier whined and clenched around him. Baiting the beast, that move. Geralt pulled back then thrust in again, the table shoving forward beneath them.

A bright pop of adrenal pain and a single saline tear. Geralt froze in cold terror. Fuck, fuck he’d been too rough.

“Don’t,” Jaskier gritted, so quick to read his mind. “Don’t you dare stop. You will fuck me with everything you have or so help me I will slit your fucking throat and tell the world you died getting your dick wet in a bruxae whorehouse.”

“I’m hurting you.”

“Not every pain hurts, my dear witcher and some of us quite like to season our pleasure with it. I want you to split me open and remake me so that you are the only one that will ever fit. _Please……….Geralt please_.”

Holding onto Jaskier’s hips, Geralt thrust into his body once, hard. 

“Fuck, yes _fuck_ just like that.” 

Geralt flexed in again. The tang of pain had evaporated, and now there was only that ravenous need filling his senses. It was enough to wipe clean any lingering restraint along with the frayed leash he’d always worn when bedding a partner. Even Yennifer had never known this side of him, this reckless frenzy. Jaskier felt like no other ever had, smelled like no other. It was a race, it was a greedy rush to take everything in sight before the world exploded. Jaskier screamed in pleasure, cursed, goaded him on to use his witcher strength with more purpose. Gods, this little lark would run him to ground like a rented mare, wouldn’t he. He was taking Geralt’s cock like it was the only thing keeping him alive, pleading for more, harder, faster you fucking brute don’t you fucking hold out on me. 

“More, more! Don’t tell me those monsters get the better effort from you! I swear on Melitele’s breast that if we live another day I will make you take one of those blasted witcher potions and fuck me into a six foot grave. Gods, I’ve thought about that a lot, you have no idea.”

“You’re still talking,” Geralt growled, biting harshly down on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

He pulled out, hauled the bard to his feet and spun him round, then took him down swiftly to the floor. He was slotting smoothly in before Jaskier fully registered the new position. But instead of going faster, Geralt rolled his hips in grinding circles, digging in deep and hitting that spot inside Jaskier every time. He stared into Jaskier’s eyes, took the adoration he found there and tucked it away. No one had ever looked at him like that, no one had ever whispered _beautiful_ and traced his scars with reverence rather than morbid fascination.

“Promise me,” Jaskier keened, his hands buried and twisted in Geralt’s hair. “Promise me.”

“Anything,” Geralt kissed the words into his mouth. It didn’t matter what was asked. It would never matter. “Anything...anything.”

With the reflexes of the desperate, Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s hand and shoved it onto his cock. Stripping him quickly, Geralt fired his own hips in rapid thrusts, matching the rhythm. When Jaskier came, bowing back in his arms and straining that beautiful voice with delirious ecstasy Geralt pounded into him harder, chased his pleasure down so that he could spill his heavy seed while that glorious body still spasmed around him. 

When Geralt turned his heavy lidded eyes to Jaskier, the bard smiled sleepily at him. His scent was thick with well satisfied lust and the sunnier, sweeter note that Geralt knew he would spend his days seeking.

“I believe that, my dear witcher, was my greatest song yet.”

)

(

A knock. Strong and measured at the inner door. They looked at one another. There’s no other sound to be heard, no voices, no swift and violent struggle. Geralt strapped his swords to his back, tied back his hair. He removed the steel sword from its sheath and offered it to Jaskier. 

“If he makes it this far, it means I’m dead. You should have as best a chance as I can give you.”

Jaskier shook his head, smoothed down his clothes and took a deliberate, princely seat on the foot of the bed. 

“If you are dead then I’ll have no will to resist joining you. Keep your natural tools, witcher, and play me a song of combat.”

A beat, Geralt replaced the sword, walked to the door and opened it. Downstairs was still eerily quiet. He turned back to look at the bard, straight backed and serene as the stars.

“Jaskier,” He wasn't made of poetry, but it seemed right that this word be the last from his lips if there might be no more.

“Geralt.”

(

)

He took the stairs silently, readied, the wall at his back. It deposited him into the red parlor, where Trellis and four of her bruxae sisters stood as statues opposite Count Tormin de Stael. He’d changed his luxurious robes and was now dressed much like Geralt, black shirt with a fitted leather jerkin, black leather pants, boots that showed both hard use and care. Instead of a sword, he carried two exotic looking daggers at his hips. Not made in this continent, not made in this era, likely.

“Now this is…..truly unexpected.” de Stael gestured to the bruxae, sounding delighted. “It’s a shame you’re a witcher and fouled up with all that bitter alchemy, I’d have loved to sample your blood after this inspired bit of creativity were you a man. Not typical for your kind, are you? I’m starting to see why dear Jaskier is so violently in love with you. Where is my little songbird?” Geralt kept silent. A graceful, scanning arch to the vampire’s awareness and his eyes narrowed in satisfaction at a point above their heads. “There we are. I will be sure to give him your regards when I go to collect him.”

It was a taunt meant to incense him, hurl him straight into the Count’s path. But Geralt had been called worse almost as often as he took a piss and with stakes far lower than a chance at Jaskier’s safety. He moved cautiously around the far side of the room, positioning himself beside Trellis and her girls. He hoped the others would appear shortly, even six against one the odds weren’t in their favor. 

“You are unwelcome here, high born.” Trellis finally spoke, clear and measured, her accent thicker. Still she didn’t move, though, the girls beside her pale and still as painted stone. Not even the curtains of their silken black hair swayed.

“My lady, it’s rude of me, I know, but I’m afraid protocols must be set aside. This is a matter of reputation, you see and I am rather vain. This man has taken something from me, I wish it returned and then I wish to split him in two with my bare hands for the insult, that is all. Perhaps you’d like to help me with this? It’d be far more worth your while.”

“I owe a debt, high born, and the witcher’s blood belongs to me until it is cleared.”

“Well, there can hardly be a debt left to pay if you’re all dead.” The Count clapped his hands jovially, ready to begin, but before he could, Trellis snapped her red taloned fingers and the young girl that had received them appeared from the next room. She lifted a kitchen knife and whisked it over her open palm, squeezing and hurling her fist at the Count before the monster thought to react. A spray of warm blood mottled his face and neck. The Count jerked back in shock, licked the droplets off his lips before he could help himself and flinched in disgust.

“Oh gods what is wrong with you, you taste--” 

Geralt didn’t hesitate, there would be no second diversion. He made the sign of Igni, held the magic as long as he dared and watched the flames catch the vampire’s body in a coat of roaring fire. He screamed, a shrieking to make the ears bleed, then whirled in a treacherous vortex of flame, caromming at inhuman speed and catching everything that might make useful tinder in his wake. The bruxae screamed in answer, flying at the vampire, claws and teeth. Geralt could barely see them in the blur of terrible fighting. One of the girls flew by him, crashing at an ugly angle into the wall. A severed hand fell at his feet. 

He threw Yrden at the ground. The movement around him slowed, the bodies taking solid form, and Geralt managed one heavy strike at the black body of the Count before the daggers found him. A chorus of wounds sang out, but his adrenaline was so high he hardly felt it. Defending blindly, Geralt felt another few blows deflected by luck and some very good instincts. Yrden again, this time rolling into the center fray and getting two hits to the creature’s legs and unguarded side. The bruxae swarmed and receded, caught by the entrapment and taking damage but managing to keep the Count on the offense. 

But they were losing. Yrden cleared and Geralt spun back, and with him the head of one of the bruxae. The Count was too fast, too strong and the full effort of all the remaining company was barely enough to contain him. Another wail, and Geralt turned in time to see another bruxa fall, her entrails cradled in her hands. The Count came at him again, a blur, a storm of knives. For every one blow he deflected, four found their mark. 

And then Trellis was across the room, the remaining two girls with her. She was calling his name. Geralt knew, he understood. He cast Igni again, too close. The flames exploded between them, throwing each on their backs. A high screech, Trellis a shimmering column of blood and rage. From unseen corners the remaining group of girls flew, fell upon the stunned body of the Count, tore into him with unmatched speed. He could not rise, not pinned as he was under such a ravenous horde. Trellis stood above it, watching, arms gloved in carnage, teeth black with blood. Her gown was shredded, hair undone, glint of white collarbone peeking from an open wound. She was smiling down at her sisters, smiling up at Geralt. What a terrible beauty she held, standing as she was, her nature laid bare. Geralt had felt the same not long ago as Jaskier had begged for the witcher to let go, to give him everything. A moment of sweet freedom for them both without the chains of control. The last thing he thought, before it all went dim, was that he very much hoped he’d never have to kill her.

)

(

“Can you just tell me, why is it every time someone’s of a mind to do a little bloodletting they go straight for the hand? You need your hands and these kinds of things are a bloody bitch to heal. Next time go for the arm, hm? Right about here….loads less painful, easy to bind and won’t keep you from...whatever the hell it is your mistress has you doing around here. What is your job exactly, and how’ve you managed on without getting eaten?”

Geralt blinked up at a charred and crumbling ceiling. Smoke, damp wood, damp cloth. Blood. Other scents below that, metals, human sweat, cooked meat and burnt hair. The trace of blighted wormwood that the bruxae carried, the spice of perfumed oils they used to cover it. He was cold, but would have likely been colder if not for the residual heat lingering in a room that had recently been on fire, and, consequently, the thick blanket that someone had wrapped him in. 

“Jaskier,” He groaned, for it was the bard’s voice that had reached him in his sleep. He sat up, his head looping in a slow, dizzy spin before his vision righted. Blood loss, he assessed, enough to put him down but not enough to kill him. Where his shirt had gone he had no clue, but the bandages covering his torso now were numerous enough to do much the same job. They weren’t seeping, well fit and neat. He looked up to where Jaskier was finishing similar work on the serving girl’s hand.

“Oh good, you’re awake. Don’t move until I’ve had a chance to check you. You know if minstraling ever fails to pay I am seriously considering a profession in the healing arts. Not that I’d enjoy the drudgery, mind you, but with the wealth of knowledge I’ve picked up trailing after your bloody wake could buy me a house in Novigrad with the patronage.”

“Where’s Trellis?” The red parlor lay in ruin, the buckets of water needed to put out the fire not enough to wash away the multitude of bloodstains. The bodies were gone, the Count and the fallen bruxae, but Geralt wouldn’t feel settled until he was sure.

“Convincing the local magistrate’s men that the fire and the sounds of unnatural slaughter were due to a traveling lord’s revelry that got a bit out of hand and that she and her girls will be moving on to prevent any further disruption.”

“Hm,” His head ached, his throat rough and raw. A pitcher of tepid water had been placed beside Geralt, also Jaskier’s doing no doubt. Geralt took it in both hands and drained it dry. It did wonders for his ills, already he could feel the refreshment energizing his healing. “Where’s the vampire?”

Jaskier paused, stared off over his shoulder, a pale, peaked expression on his sweaty face.

“They...um….ripped….”

“He’s been quartered and boxed.” The girl said in a flat tone. She flexed her hand, nodded at Jaskier.

“Literally,” Jaskier grimaced. In fact, there was much more blood covering the parlor floor than one might expect. “Four pieces, four boxes. I think they mean to take him with them.”

“He’s not dead.” 

Geralt rose to his feet, slow but resolute, hiding how drained he felt just then. It was an old habit, a thing Vesimir had trained them to do always, no matter the company. Never give away how weak, how vulnerable, how unsteady you are. Learn the steps and practice so that no one might guess you are dancing. But Jaskier wasn’t fooled. It was clear the moment he looked at him, the pinch in his blue eyes, the thin pull of his lips. When had Jaskier learned his choreography, when had he become so skilled at reading a witcher?

All those years, he had wanted so desperately for Yennifer to understand him, to see past the training and mutations to what was still left of a man, and meanwhile Jaskier had learned that language all on his own. No one shared less in common than they two in temperament and upbringing and yet not even Yennifer would have noticed that the way he crossed his arms over his chest was really meant to brace up his throbbing ribs, or surmised why he leaned back against the nearest wall, casual in appearance but conversely the best vantage point with the most afforded protection. Jaskier, though, scooped up Geralt’s swords, which had been lying beside him, and thrust them at the witcher with a put on little sigh.

“Hold these, will you? Before someone trips. I need to hunt up another shirt for you, the other one is in threads. Amrys, darling, do you have a place where you store the clients’ misplaced garments?” The girl nodded and gestured for Jaskier to follow, who blithely chattered his way through the various rooms. “Can’t tell you how many lovely bits of clothing I’ve lost to houses such as these. It’s a wonder you don’t open a merchant stand as well and make another few coins selling it all off. You’d make a fortune, I’m sure. One time I lost the most gorgeous pair of silk lined breeches with a vine motif up the legs. Little velvet leaves that fluttered when you walked. But that wasn’t the best part, really their value lay in the way they just cupped and rounded my bottom like a dream. I could make a week’s worth of coin in one night wearing those breeches if I bent over once or twice during my set. Went back thrice to claim them but the damned woman pleaded ignorance. Lying wench. Now, how could you have possibly left a brothel without the pants you came in with, you might ask. Let me tell you, I was really only there to serenade the customers, but then the ladies of the manor suggested this game…..”

Geralt tracked the sound of his voice throughout the house, stared down at the sheath of swords he was holding. He pulled the silver one, spun it once in his hand. It had been cleaned, hastily, likely with whatever had been within reach, but there was no remaining stain of blood on the blade. Jaskier had cleaned it, kept it on hand for the moment Geralt awoke and would need to heft its weight in his grip to feel settled. 

There was a sound he had always found, not exactly pleasurable in the usual sense, but a deep sensation of satisfaction, of rightness, upon hearing. It was the iron thunk of a key twisting the bolt of a lock open. Sometimes it was chests storing a few orens, a few forgotten weapons he could sell in the next village, but most locks secured doors that, for one reason or other people had feared opening. The sound echoed in crypts, in dungeons, in haunted castles where the horrors shut away behind heavy doors rallied their anger over centuries. It was the overture note to work, Geralt’s work, a heaving, bloodied grind every time. But it was a sound he relished so much because, however it had started, it sang a repeating phrase to him.

_It’s mine._

A lock and it’s key. And now the thing that was always meant for Geralt alone was his to take.

He found the reflection of his own eyes in the blade’s mirror, the blade cared for by the bard after he’d cared for Geralt, the eyes that frightened nearly every human in some way but one. One that found them beautiful, that delighted in watching him diallate the cat-like slits on command, making the same exact noise when he saw the trick as he did when an innkeeper surprised them with pudding after their meal.

Over the acrid char that burned his sinuses, a tendril of sweet summer, virgin rains on fields of grass and the climbing, tenacious nectar of honeysuckle. Geralt looked up to see Jaskier standing in the doorway watching him.

And from a place he couldn’t pinpoint, some internal alcove he did not remember building, the sound of a lock twisted open.


	5. Chapter 5

Without the convenience of a mage’s portals, it would be three days of slow travel back to the court where they’d left Roach and everything they owned in the world. There was no knowing the state of things when they got there, but it wasn’t hard to guess that the witcher and the bard who had escaped in full view of the local nobility with an enraged Count on their heels, returning very distinctly _without_ him, might raise a suspicion or two.

“And that’s why you need to put on the cloak and get in the coach.”

“I will not leave you out there with them.” Geralt growled, eyeing the bruxae as they filled another cart with whatever they could salvage from the brothel. 

“I’m not the one with the magical jewelry that buzzes every time there’s trouble. You need to stay close to him. Besides, I don’t think you need to worry, one of them called me spoiled meat, can you believe that?” 

They watched as four small trunks were carried between the ladies and stacked on the ground. It was almost dawn, they would need to be out of the city limits soon to avoid more questions. Geralt opened the nearest trunk, looked down at the folded, mangled stump that used to be a hip and the leg attached to it. He checked the others as well, making sure all the pieces were there.

Tormin, while not dead, likely immortal until another of his kind took a match to him, remained in a kind of restive state. Geralt stared down at the blank face and wished he was strong enough to blot this creature out from existence once and for all. Instead he would have to satisfy himself by prying open the bloody lips and tearing the slippery tongue out. He opened the lid of another trunk and tossed it in. At least now if the monster healed enough to regain some consciousness he wouldn’t be able to speak. It didn’t cause him as much concern as it likely should to see all the fresh bite marks littering the vampire’s flesh.

“Feel better now?” Jaskier grimaced as he watched Geralt work. With a flourish he was likely enjoying far too much, Jaskier flung a long black cloak around Geralt’s shoulders, pulling the large hood over his head. The witcher glared down at him as Jaskier fastened the lace. Too close, a draft of the bard’s arousal teased up at him, but this time it held a note of Geralt’s own spend still deep inside him. 

_Oh_. 

Oh, fuck now that was a scent he could get lost in. 

Without any hesitation he had Jaskier in his arms, kissing him, gripping him by the firm globes of his ass and tasting the sweet silken perfection of his mouth. What would it be like, he wondered, if he soaked Jaskier in his claim. Other creatures would be able to scent it, know that this human held a witcher’s regard. An intriguing prospect.

“Damn you,” Jaskier husked in his ear. “Now I’ll be walking for miles stiff and aching for you. Maybe I should ride in the coach after all. I could sit between your thighs and keep that glorious cock warm.” His blue eyes blinked at Geralt without an ounce of coquettery, just an eager, hungry light that spoke the same truth as his scent. 

“That would be a dangerous distraction.” Gods just the thought of it, miles rocking to the sway of the road with his cock housed securely in that soft warmth. Jaskier wasn’t to be the only one suffering the coming miles in straining breeches. “Finish with the carts, but stay where I can see you.”

Jaskier sighed, but stole a final kiss beneath the cover of Geralt’s hood before assisting with the horses.

“Your bard it too tempting by half,” Trellis purred at Geralt as she came up to his side. “It will amuse me to think on the troubles such a man could bring to a mighty witcher.”

“You’re feeding on the vampire,” he grunted instead.

“Do not think this gift tips the scales back in your favor. We are even, witcher.”

“Careful not to indulge too often.” The implication clear.

Trellis smiled with half her painted mouth, “We did not survive this long suffering intemperance. My girls have lost sisters, let them have their wine.”

They made it out of Gors Valen without incident. Geralt hadn’t been prepared for how smooth travel could be in a caravan of vampiric prostitutes. Any creatures that might lie in wait for errant travelers left them be, and any townsfolk they encountered were quickly swayed with their ample charms and plentiful coin. They also did not suffer the same physical failings as humans, content to move onwards without rest or food. It’s Geralt that slows their progress, making sure Jaskier is fed, that his canteen is full, that he is given proper time to sleep. The girls do not seem to mind, finding it all terribly amusing, laughing behind their hands at him each time his concern is made plain. But they ease up when the bard, to exactly everyone’s surprise but Geralt’s, makes friends with the bruxae. Of course he does.

Of course.

By the time they are in view of the de Stael castle, Jaskier knew all of their names, their true names. He knew their histories, their tragic loves and endless hungers. He’d braided their hair beside camp fires and picked them flowers. He had dozens of new ideas for songs, disguised for their safety but named for each of them. Outside the castle walls they fly off in seperate directions, returning not long after with Jaskier’s lute, with bags of coins, with Roach kicking and nipping at the creatures he’s learned to fear leading him by the reins. They leave gifts for him at his feet like a murder of happy crows, call farewells and travel onwards into the city. 

“Well I have to say, I wonder if your bestiary is accurate because they were lovely.” Jaskier chirped as they headed in the direction of the western road. 

“It’s accurate.”

Geralt doesn’t mention how he hadn’t slept a single moment of their journey, too untrusting of the dangerous maidens. And Jaskier with his taste for monsters, it was going to cause him no end of torment.

And no end of gratitude.

“Come here,” He reached out for Jaskier’s hand and pulled him up into the saddle in front of him. He snaked a strong arm around the slim waist and nudged Roach on. It was too tempting not to bury his nose in Jaskier’s hair, breathe greedy lungfuls and pick out all the lush scents for as long as he wished.

“Be careful witcher, or I’ll grow dreadfully accustomed to this.” He sighed as Geralt’s seeking mouth found the slope of his bare neck. “Take us somewhere private where you can make me scream properly.”

“Be careful bard, a witcher doesn’t work for free.”

“Oh is that so? Well what do you think is honest payment for ferrying a poor, weary bard to our next camp?”

Geralt slid his bracing arm down, plucking open the top laces of Jaskier’s breeches with dexterous fingers and fitting his hand down inside to cup the man’s plumping cock. 

“Something to play with, I think,” He rasped against Jaskier’s cheek, squeezing and kneading the hardening flesh in his hand. “I like the way you smell when you’re needy.”

“How do I smell, witcher?” Jaskier gasped, trying to grind down into his hand and finding precious little room to do so on a shared saddle.

“Like something musky with spice I want to sink my teeth into.” A slow, wet line licked down the soft neck, but his hand eased off, feather light fingers tracing the veins of his cock and circling his balls. “Like you want to be mounted.”

They were well enough down the road that it wouldn’t take much of a detour to find a secluded spot in the woods to make an early camp, but Geralt was rather enjoying himself. Such a luxury he’d never imagined, traveling slow and easy in the warm sunshine with the bard fit so close to him his head filled with nothing but the intoxicating scent of him. That fucking scent which was so good he couldn’t help but sniff and bite and suck at Jaskier’s neck and shoulders in a lazy pattern while his hand cupped and gentled his cock. It was never enough pressure, fondling his little song bird to hear him sigh and sing tiny broken notes of wanting. He slipped into the warmth of it like a bath, his tension easing, his senses filled with Jaskier, only Jaskier. Hours were lost in the haze of it, and by the time he roused himself enough to start considering a place to stop for the night, Jaskier was trembling and limp in his arms, his head thrown back across the witcher’s shoulder, his hands swinging, twitching uselessly at his sides. He’d been pleading, Geralt realised, the single word unspooled and woven back into the breathy music of his desire.

_Please…..please…._

“Just a little further,” He murmured as they turned off the bare scratch of dirt that served as a road, winding between the trees. “And then I’m going to take my pleasure from you slowly that I might hear you beg some more.”

“Well what’s the hold up,” Jaskier snatched the reins and kicked Roach into a canter, newly alive with the promise of release. It was a mistake he soon discovered when Geralt didn’t remove his hand. The vigorous jostling jerked Geralt’s hand rhythmically, and not two yards in Jaskier was cursing and squirming. 

“Fuck, I’m going to come. Geralt, mercy, I don’t want to come like this!”

Geralt took back the reins when Jaskier tried to slow them. 

“Then don’t come. Hold it for me bard, until I get inside you.”

“And you’ll definitely have to stop talking like that.” Jaskier panted, eyes squeezed shut and biting his fingers into Geralt’s thighs. “Where’s the taciturn cocksucker who speaks only in grunts?”

“He’s remembering how a little bard begged to warm his cock with his talented mouth. So if there’s to be a cocksucker among us, it will be he who promised as much to a witcher, who’s thought of nothing else for three days straight and means to collect.”

“Fuck, stop the horse. I can’t bear it anymore, Geralt, get me off this thing.” He all but threw himself from Roach before the beast had fully slowed, stumbling on unsteady legs and finding a tree to brace against. Geralt smirked, but he was finding that teasing the bard that way had riled his own passions past the point of composure. He pulled up the reins, watched Jaskier from high in the saddle, letting the moment settle before dismounting, striding over with strict determination. Jaskier fell to his knees like a doll with its strings cut, zeroed in on the obscene line of Geralt’s cock straining against the leather. When Geralt made to undo his breeches, Jaskier batted his hands away. “Let me,” he whispered, clawing at the fastenings with clumsy desperation, whining like a new whore when the tremendous girth of Geralt’s cock sprung free. His hands hovered like hummingbirds as if he were afraid to touch, murmuring reverences for far longer than Geralt had patience for. He took Jaskier firmly by the hair, and oh, that mop of boyish locks was just exactly the right length to get a secure handhold, tugged the bard’s head back to look up at him so that he could watch his face as he swiftly fed him his cock.

Jaskier moaned high through his nose, surprised, but the sound deep dropped in his throat as it made room for Geralt’s length. He thrust in shallowly a few times, feeling out the limits of Jaskier’s endurance then rubbing the swollen head all along the silken lining of his mouth, exploring until Jaskier bucked, tired of the gentle pace and tried to take him deeper. Geralt groaned and let his head fall back, let Jaskier set the pace, let him scrabble at his thighs and nearly choke himself in his haste to take every single inch he could manage. He sucked and twisted and curled his tongue, inhaled loudly through his nose then took it deep into the hot clutch of his throat again and again. 

“Gods, your mouth” Geralt cried, digging his hands into the bard’s hair once more, unable to stop himself from prodding that depth himself, mindful of any strained noises, any resistance he might find. But there was none, Jaskier moaned and twisted his hips futilly as if Geralt taking his mouth was enough to bring him off. Maybe it was. Geralt didn’t think he’d ever been with someone that wanted him the way Jaskier did, it was a glorious thing to think on, that there might be new ways of fucking they could have only with each other. 

“Could you come like this, little lark? Suckling at my prick like you were starved for it?”

Jaskier pulled off, heaving new lungfuls of air, his eyelashes wet and his mouth a wanton shade of red. “Yes, yes if that’s what you wanted. If you took hold of me and fucked your seed straight down my throat and let me hear the sounds of your pleasure I would be helpless to stop it.”

Geralt ran a thumb over the wet seam of his lips, pushed it into Jaskier’s mouth to feel the soft bed of his tongue. “You are a foolish thing to put yourself into the hands of a witcher this way, telling me to take what I wish. I put the things that are mine to hard use, you know.”

“Gods I fucking hope that you do.” Jaskier groaned, gripping the base of his straining erection through his breeches as if the very thought of such treatment were too much. “But I also know you care for the things that are yours.”

It was there in his scent, in the open sweetness that cut through the fragrant mist of their lust, the thing that Geralt had never considered might find him, a gift so rare it was hard to seperate the terror from the joy at finding it. He fell to his knees, gathering the bard in his arms and kissing him roughly. 

“Take your clothes off now if you wish to keep them intact.”

Jaskier scrambled to his feet as Geralt moved to the packs, digging up a bottle one of the bruxa had not so subtly slipped into the folds and one of the bedrolls. He threw both hastily to the ground and then it was a race to see who could undress the quickest. Despite the head start, Jaskier’s progress was held back by too many buttons. He struggled with the shirt, his bottom half naked, revealing his leanly muscled legs and a hint of his straining cock, ruddy and swaying helplessly between his thighs. A man of his word, Geralt tore the linen down the middle and tossed it into the bushes. He lassoed Jaskier in for one hard kiss then hauled the man off his feet and onto his knees. The oil was luxuriant on his fingers, and thankfully held no perfume, which allowed him to savor the dark scent of Jaskier’s lust as he fingered the man open. He was just as tight as if they hadn’t done this only days before, and Geralt gave hard consideration to how often he’d have to take Jaskier like this before it would be easy work to simply slick himself and slip inside. But for now he would take his time with his precious bard, smile to the music of his keening and make sure there would be no pain each time he added another finger. It was ages before he deemed him ready, despite the multitude of declarations of the fact whined beneath him. 

That first push, the straining effort to go slow, the exquisite pressure and slick heat, was just as incredible as the first time.

“I will never tire of fucking you.” He moaned, leaned down to kiss at the pale stretch of spine until his hips met the plump curve of Jaskier’s ass. He pulled out then slammed back in once. It punched a delightful sound from Jaskier’s lungs, one he’d like to hear again. 

Again. A breath of cool air on his cock as he pulled back then the scorching heat as he slammed back in. Another...another. Savage with the edge of his strength but refusing to hurry the pace. He placed a hand on Jaskier’s neck, pushed his head into the blankets and canted his hips up for a deeper angle. Steady, slapping thrusts that echoed lewdly, the two of them cursing until the burst of salt hit his nose, the cracking cry of the man below him as he came. Geralt picked up the pace only then, holding onto the bard’s hips and fucking away like an animal in rut until he came with jaw clenching force. He heaved, pulled out slowly and helped turn Jaskier on his back. The bard smiled up at him, a sleepy, well sated smile that spread into a moue of surprise when Geralt gripped his still hard cock and slid back in.

“There we go,” he purred, stroking Jaskier’s face as the man clawed at his back at the unexpected stimulation.

“Oh oh oh! Fuck, FUCK Geralt you-- gods you’ll kill me!”

“You wanted to bed a witcher,” He grunted, hips pistoning faster now, shallow so as not to stray too far from Jaskier’s glorious heat.

“I’m not implying I dislike it!”

“Can you come again?” His hand fitting between them to wrap around the soft bit of flesh.

“No gods, I’m only a man and spitfully weak!”

“Hm,” Geralt thumbed the rosy head and felt it twitch in his hand. “ I think you can.”

He would come inside Jaskier twice more before he pulled another thin stream of seed from the bard’s shaking body. It was a long time before either of them realized how cool the night had become, that there was no fire yet, no food prepared or water gathered. 

“I think I’m actually in love with your cock.” Jaskier said between still heavy breaths. “You’re terrific, don’t get me wrong, but I must be honest with my intentions. Also I wasn’t kidding about that potion thing.”

Geralt laughed, pulled the bard to his chest and wondered if he’d ever felt so light, so happy, in all his days. They could do one night without a fire, one night without supper if it meant he got to stay here, in this very moment for as long as wakefulness let him.

)

(

Midday sunshine speckled his lids, the rustle of leaves gently waking him. Geralt stretched out his awareness without opening his eyes. Jaskier was no longer beside him, he was just a little ways off, speaking lowly. A small fire crackled to his right, the bag of rations had been opened, the dusty smell of biscuits and jerky. Geralt rolled to his side and opened his eyes. At the other side of the fire Jaskier stood brushing Roach and feeding her a handful of oats, taking her chin in his hand and speaking to her earnestly.

“We both love you very much, but you have to understand that we love each other, too, and sometimes things like that will happen.” Roach snorted and pulled her head aside, searching his pockets for more oats. “I know it’s improper, but you’re a worldly woman, such things shouldn’t shock you.” She butted his head with her nose and Jaskier laughed. “Fine, yes, your demands have been heard.” He pulled another handful of oats from his pocket and kissed her face.

“First you say you love my cock above all else, then I find you kissing my horse.”

“You must work for my affection, witcher, I am a man of many loves.”

Geralt threw back the blanket, stalked across the short distance fully naked and smirking at how quickly the sight wiped the cheeky expression from the bard’s face. He gathered Jaskier into his arms, buried his face into the welcoming crook of his neck and breathed deep. 

“Honeysuckle,” He mouthed into the warm skin.

“What?” Jaskier, so responsive and eager, melted into Geralt’s arms and wrapped his own arms tight around him. 

“You only smell of honeysuckle with me. That’s what your love smells like.”

“Looks like there is no hiding it from you.” Blue eyes, pure as gemstones, gazed up at him. “Tell me, Geralt, what does a witcher do when he’s bound to suffer a lovesick bard following him for the rest of his days?”

“I would imagine, if there were such a witcher, he might need someone to guide him through the landscape of such an emotion. He might need someone to teach him what it all means, so that he might be worthy of that love.”

“That could take some time,” Jaskier hummed. “A nice quiet stretch with just the two of them where said bard could instruct this witcher in every possible variation and facet and _position_ love has to offer.”

“Do you have a place in mind?”

“In fact, I do,” Jaskier pulled back, beaming at him. “A cottage by the coast. Fresh air, no neighbors and all the kelpies and drowners you can shake a sword at.”

An odd, bubbly feeling took hold of him, fizzing up from his belly, making his head feel giddy and light. Maybe Jaskier might know what this feeling was, too.

“Lead the way,” He smiled, feeling the strange urge to laugh. “I’ll follow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for your kind kudos and comments!


End file.
